cried Slim, suddenly waking up to the situation.

The noon train slid away from the little, red depot at Dry Lake and
curled out of sight around a hill. The only arrival looked expectantly
into the cheerless waiting room, gazed after the train, which seemed
the last link between her and civilization, and walked to the edge of
the platform with a distinct frown upon the bit of forehead visible
under her felt hat.

A fat young man threw the mail sack into a weather-beaten buggy and
drove leisurely down the track to the post office. The girl watched
him out of sight and sighed disconsolately. All about her stretched
the rolling grass land, faintly green in the hollows, brownly barren
on the hilltops. Save the water tank and depot, not a house was to
be seen, and the silence and loneliness oppressed her.

The agent was dragging some boxes off the platform. She turned and
walked determinedly up to him, and the agent became embarrassed under
her level look.

"Isn't there anyone here to meet me?" she demanded, quite needlessly.
"I am Miss Whitmore, and my brother owns a ranch, somewhere near here.
I wrote him, two weeks ago, that I was coming, and I certainly expected
him to meet me." She tucked a wind-blown lock of brown hair under her
hat crown and looked at the agent reproachfully, as if he were to blame,
and the agent, feeling suddenly that somehow the fault was his, blushed
guiltily and kicked at a box of oranges.

"Whitmore's rig is in town," he said, hastily. "I saw his man at
dinner. The train was reported late, but she made up time." Grasping