Eleanor, how d' y' get here ahead? Did y' climb? We met His Royal
High Mightiness and His Nibs goin' to the cow-camp. Say, Miss Eleanor,
I don't care what they say, I'm goin' to take sheep all by my lonesome
this time, sure; goin' t' ride Pinto 'cause he's got a big tummy t'
keep him from sinking when he swims. You needn't laugh, it's so! You
ask Dad if a tum-jack don't keep a horse from sinkin'! Say--" sticking
forward his face in a whisper--"Senator oughtn't to sink--eh?"

"You don't swim sheep unless you're a pilgrim," admonished Wayland; but
at that moment, the Senator himself came over the edge of the Ridge,
bloused and white-vested and out of breath, a bunch of mountain flowers
in one hand, his felt hat in the other; and three men bobbed up behind,
Indian file, over the crest of the trail, the Missionary, Williams,
stepping lightly, MacDonald swarthy and close-lipped, taking the climb
with the ease of a mountaineer, Bat Brydges, the Senator's newspaper
man, hat on the back of his head, coat and vest and collar in hand,
blowing with the zest of a puffing locomotive.

"Whew!" The Senator dilated expansively and sank again. "Here we are
at last! You here, Miss Eleanor? Evening--Wayland! Night to you,
Calamity! How is the world using you since you stopped tramping over
the hills?" Calamity shrank back to the cabin. "I thought this trail
hard as a climb to Paradise. Now, I know it was," and the gentleman
wheezed a bow to Eleanor that sent his neck creasing to his flowing
collar and set his vest chortling.

"What! No flowers--either of you? You leave an old fellow like me to
gather flowers and quote 'What so rare as a day in June' and all that?
What's that lazy rascal of a Forest fellow doing? I would have spouted
_yards_ of good poetry when I was his age a night like this. Hasn't