entrance, but he denied them. How
shaken his father had been at sight of him! Poor old Dad! And then
what was the significance of all that talk about his range name,
Panhandle Smith, and his father's strange fascinated handling of Pan's
gun? Would his mother know him at first glance? Oh! no doubt of that!
But Alice would not; she had been a child; and he had grown, changed.

While his thoughts raced he kept gazing near and far. The farm land
showed a fair degree of cultivation. Grassy hills shone in the bright
morning sun; high up, flares of gold spoke eloquently of aspen thickets
tinged by the frost; purple belts crossing the mountains told of
forests. The wall of rock that he had observed from Moran's camp wound
away over the eastern horizon. A new country it was, a fair and wild
country, rugged and hard on the uplands, suitable for pasture and
cultivation in the lowlands.

Pan passed the first farmhouse. Beyond that he could make out only a
green patch, where he judged lay the home he was hunting. His buoyant
step swallowed up the rods. Cattle and horses grazed in a pasture.
The road turned to the right, round the slope of a low hill. Pan's
quick eye caught a column of curling blue smoke that rose from a grove
of trees. The house would be in there. Pasture, orchard, cornfield,
ragged and uncut, a grove of low trees with thick foliage, barns and
corrals he noted with appreciative enthusiasm. The place did not have
the bareness characteristic of a ranch.

At last Pan reached the wagon gate that led into the farm. It bordered
an orchard of fair-sized trees, the leaves of which were colored. He
cut across the orchard so as to reach the house more quickly. It was
still mostly hidden among the trees. Smell of hay, of fruit, of the
barnyard assailed his nostrils. And then the fragrance of wood smoke
and burning leaves! His heart swelled full high in his breast. He
could never meet his mother with his usual cool easy nonchalance.

Suddenly he espied a woman through the trees. She was quite close. He
almost ran. No, it could not be his mother. This was a girl, lithe,
tall, swift stepping. His mother had been rather short and stout.
Could this girl be his sister Alice? The swift supposition was absurd,
because Alice was only about ten, and this girl was grown. She had a
grace of motion that struck Pan. He hurried around some trees to
intercept her, losing sight of her for a moment.

Suddenl