summer set in.

She saw the painter's brush for the first time--that exquisite rose of
the prairies--and instantly dismounted to gather a bunch to thrust in
her belt. The delicate, ashy pink of the flower matched the color in
her cheeks.

On her rides Colina was accustomed to dismount when she chose, and
Ginger, her sorrel gelding, would crop the grass contentedly until she
was ready to mount again. To-day the spring must have been in his
blood, too.

When Colina went to him he tossed his head coquettishly, and trotting
away a few steps, turned and looked at her with a droll air. Colina
called him in dulcet tones, and held out an inviting hand.

Ginger waywardly wagged his head and danced with his forefeet.

This was repeated several times--Colina's voice ever growing more
honeyed as the rose in her cheeks deepened. The inevitable
happened--she lost her temper and stamped her foot; whereupon Ginger,
with lifted tail, ran around her like a circus horse.

Colina, alternately cajoling and commanding, pursued him bootlessly.
Fond as she was of exercise, she preferred having the horse use his
legs. She sat down in the grass and cried a little out of sheer
impotence.

Ginger resumed his interrupted meal on the grass with insulting
unconcern. Colina was twelve miles from home--and hungry.