"I've warned you. I've been warning you for twenty-five years, Vance."

Once again he attempted to turn her. He always had the impression that if
he became serious, deadly serious for ten consecutive minutes with his
sister, he would be ruined. He kept on with his semi-jovial tone.

"There are two arts, Elizabeth. One is making money and the other is
spending it. You've mastered one and I've mastered the other. Which
balances things, don't you think?"

She did not melt; he waved down to the farm land.

"Watch that wave of wind, Elizabeth."

A gust struck the scattering of aspens, and turned up the silver of the
dark green leaves. The breeze rolled across the trees in a long, rippling
flash of light. But Elizabeth did not look down. Her glance was fixed on
the changeless snow of Mount Discovery's summit.

"As long as you have something to spend, spending is a very important
art, Vance. But when the purse is empty, it's a bit useless, it seems to
me."

"Well, then, I'll have to mortgage my future. As a matter of fact, I
suppose I could borrow what I want on my prospects."

A veritable Indian yell, instantly taken up and prolonged by a chorus of
similar shouts, cut off the last of his words. Round the corner of the
house shot a blood-bay stallion, red as the red of iron under the
blacksmith's hammer, with a long, black tail snapping and flaunting