three trees."

At the bend of the Sage Brush Jerry left the stream road and sped
across a long level swell toward three cottonwood-trees standing
sentinel on a small rise of the prairie. From there she was to see the
oak-grove, the center of her own rich holdings. Oh, Jerry!

<tb>

Down under the spreading oaks a young man in rough ranchman's dress
stood leaning against a low bough, absorbed in thought. He was tall,
symmetrically built, and strong of muscle, without a pound of
superfluous fat to suggest anything of ease and idleness in his day's
run. Some of the lines that mark the stubborn will were graven in his
brown face, but the eyes were all-redeeming. Even as he stared out with
unseeing gaze, lost in his own thoughts, the smile that lighted them
hovered ready to illuminate what might otherwise have been a severe
countenance.

In all the wide reach of level land there was no other living creature
in sight. The breeze pulsing gently through the oak boughs poured the
sunlight noiselessly down on the shadow-cooled grass about the
tree-trunks. The freshness of the morning lingered in the air of the
grove.

Suddenly the young man caught the sound of an automobile coasting down
the long slide from the three cottonwoods, and turned to see a young
girl in a shining gray car gliding down into the edge of the shade. A
soft hat of Delft-blue, ornamented, valkyrie-wise, with two white wings;
golden-gleaming hair overshadowing a face full of charm; blue eyes;
cheeks of peach-blossom pink; firm, red lips; a well-defined chin and
white throat; a soft gown, Delft-blue in color; and white gauntlet
gloves--all these were in the blurred picture of that confused moment.

As for Jerry Swaim, all farmer folk looked alike to her. It was not the
sudden appearance of a stranger, but the landscape beyond him, that held
her speechless, until the shrill whistle of a train broke the silence.

"Is that the Sage Brush Railroad so near?" she asked, at last, with no
effort at formal greeting.

"Yes, ma'am. It is just behind the palisades over there. You can't see
it from here because the sand-drifts are so high. That's the morning
freight now."

The light died out of Jerry Swaim's eyes, the pink bloom faded to ivory
in her cheeks, even the red lips grew pale, as she stared at the scene
before her. For the oak-grove stood a lone outpost of greenness
defending a more or less fertile countryside from a formless, senseless
monster beyond