him toward the door.

"Who is it wasting my time? There," she cried, as she opened the door,
and her father vanished through it, "get right out, and don't you dare
come back for an hour."

The ranchman's laugh echoed down the corridor as he moved away. Then
Nan, practical and sober once more, closed the door and rang for the
chambermaid.

* * * * * *

Whatever success could be claimed for the men who had founded and built
up the "Obar" Ranch, and it was more than considerable, the triumph of
that night was in no small measure to the credit of Nan Tristram.

But when it was all over, when the last of the three beautiful gowns
had been tucked tenderly away in the drawers which were their temporary
home, and Nan was left to the night solitude in which to go over once
more in her secret thoughts each keenly vivid detail of the
kaleidoscopic play of events as they had swept past her during the
evening, they found her soberly wondering if, after all, the
anticipated delight had been realized. Was it possible in all that
unquestioned success there had been no delight, no real enjoyment at
all? It seemed impossible. It was impossible, and she tried to put
the thought out of her mind. But it refused to be banished. It
returned again--and again, and, in desperation, not untouched with
panic, she assured herself that she was tired--very tired, and this
silly feeling was the result. Then, too, her humor was summoned, and
it warned her of the quantity of ice cream she had devoured at the
ball. It told her her digestion had suffered in consequence. And this
she thought was a pity, because she loved ice cream.

But humor was swept aside by a far keener emotion. She scorned the
idea of indigestion. She had no pain _there_. But there was pain, a
silly ache about her heart which robbed her of all desire for sleep.

She tried to console herself by recalling her father's quaintly
expressed admiration of her, when he first beheld her in her new and
costly gown. What was it?

"Why, say, Nan, when I look at you I sort o' feel as if two fellers had
bin at work fixin' you, a po't an' a painter, Seems as if they'd set
their mushy heads together, an' each had doped out what the other
couldn't, till ther' ain't a thing left fer the fancy of plain
mule-headed sort o' bussocks like me."

Curious as his method of expression had been she had understood and
thrilled with delight. But almost at o