girl. Somehow that's better. I can't explain, but I like it. My dresses are
what have caused all the trouble. I know that. But if I'm grown up--if it's so
tremendous--then I'll wear a dress all the time, except just WHEN I ride.
Will that do, Auntie?"

"Maybe you will grow up, after all," replied Aunt Jane, evidently surprised
and pleased.

Then Lucy with clinking spurs ran away to her room.

"Jane, what's this nonsense about young Joel Creech?" asked Bostil, gruffly.

"I don't know any more than is gossiped. That I told you. Have you ever asked
Lucy about him?"

"I sure haven't," said Bostil, bluntly.

"Well, ask her. If she tells you at all she'll tell the truth. Lucy'd never
sleep at night if she lied."

Aunt Jane returned to her housewifely tasks, leaving Bostil thoughtfully
stroking the hound and watching the fire. Presently Lucy returned--a different
Lucy--one that did not rouse his rider's pride, but thrilled his father's
heart. She had been a slim, lithe, supple, disheveled boy, breathing the wild
spirit of the open and the horse she rode. She was now a girl in the graceful
roundness of her slender form, with hair the gold of the sage at sunset, and
eyes the blue of the deep haze of distance, and lips the sweet red of the
upland rose. And all about her seemed different.

"Lucy--you look--like--like she used to be," said Bostil, unsteadily.