some of the wisdom which nature teaches those who can read her language,
and he had read much, lying on his stomach under a summer sky, while the
cattle grazed all around him and his horse cropped the sweet grasses
within reach of his hand. He could repeat whole pages of Shakespeare,
and of Scott, and Bobbie Burns--he'd like to try Dr. Cecil on some of
them and see who came out ahead. Still, he was ignorant--and none
realized it more keenly and bitterly than did Chip.

He rested his chin in his hand and brooded over his comfortless past and
cheerless future. He could just remember his mother--and he preferred
not to remember his father, who was less kind to him than were strangers.
That was his past. And the future--always to be a cow-puncher? There
was his knack for drawing; if he could study and practice, perhaps even
the Little Doctor would not dare call him ignorant then. Not that he
cared for what she might say or might not say, but a fellow can't help
hating to be reminded of something that he knows better than anyone else--
and that is not pleasant, however you may try to cover up the
unsightliness of it.

If Dr. Cecil Granthum--damn him!--had been kicked into the world and made
to fight fate with tender, childish little fists but lately outgrown
their baby dimples, as had been HIS lot, would he have amounted to
anything, either? Maybe Dr. Cecil would have grown up just common
and ignorant and fit for nothing better than to furnish amusement to
girl doctors with dimples and big, gray eyes and a way of laughing.
He'd like to show that little woman that she didn't know all about
him yet. It wasn't too late--he was only twenty-four--he would study,
and work, and climb to where she must look up, not down, to him--if
she cared enough to look at all. It wasn't too late. He would quit
gambling and save his money, and by next winter he'd have enough to