was not an enlivening one, but she started off across the prairie very
philosophically at first, very dejectedly later on, and very angrily at
last. The sun was scorching, and it was dinner time, and she was hungry,
and hot, and tired, and--"mad." She did not bless her rescuer; she heaped
maledictions upon his head--mild ones at first, but growing perceptibly
more forcible and less genteel as the way grew rougher, and her feet
grew wearier, and her stomach emptier. Then, as if her troubles were
all to come in a lump--as they have a way of doing--she stepped squarely
into a bunch of "pincushion" cactus.

"I just HATE Montana!" she burst out, vehemently, blinking back some
tears. "I don't care if Cecil did just come day before yesterday--I
shall pack up and go back home. She can stay if she wants to, but I
won't live here another day. I hate Chip Bennett, too, and I'll tell
him so if I ever get home. I don't see what J. G.'s thinking of, to
live in such a God-forgotten hole, where there's nothing but miles
upon miles of cactuses--" The downfall of Eastern up-bringing! To
deliberately say "cactuses"--but the provocation was great, I admit.
If any man doubts, let him tread thin-shod upon a healthy little
"pincushion" and be convinced. I think he will confess that "cactuses"
is an exceedingly conservative epithet, and all too mild for the
occasion.

Half an hour later, Chip, leading Concho by the bridle rein, rode over
the brow of a hill and came suddenly upon the Little Doctor, sitting
disconsolately upon a rock. She had one shoe off, and was striving
petulantly to extract a cactus thorn from the leather with a hat pin.
Chip rode close and stopped, regarding her with satisfaction from the
saddle. It was the first time he had succeeded in finding the Little
Doctor alone since the arrival of Dr. Cecil Granthum--God bless her!