ed her, or when she felt sad and thought
she needed sympathy. Jack and Frieda knew no difference in their feeling
for Jean and for each other.

When Jacqueline finished supper, she curled herself in a big armchair in
front of the fire. Frieda sat on a low stool at her feet while Jean,
with an open book, was not far away. Jean was the reader of the three
girls, but to-night her book was neglected.

"Out with it, Jack," Jean insisted calmly. "You know perfectly well that
you haven't told us all that happened to you this afternoon. Fire away
and get it over with, I want to finish my book to-night."

After much urging, Jack told her story in full and Jean flung her book
down and danced about the room on her tip-toes, she was so angry, when
she heard how Dan Norton had treated her. But she had a different
feeling about the young English fellow.

"I really think you were rather horrid, Jacqueline Ralston," she
announced coolly. "Of course we can't be having visitors or making
friends with any one visiting those hateful Nortons, but I think you
might have told that young fellow we would be nice to him when we met
him other places. He is a far-off cousin of the Nortons, whose health
broke down while he was at college in England and his people sent him
over here to recover. His father is a Lord, or a Sir or something, I
can't remember which. But Mrs. Simpson says he is awfully nice and--"

Jack put both fingers in her ears. "For goodness sake, hush, Jean
Bruce," she protested. "You are such a snob. What difference can it make
to us, whether this Frank Kent is a lord or a prizefighter? We certainly
can't have anything to do with him. I shan't even speak to him again if
I can help it. For the life of me, Jean, I don't see how you happen to
find out the gossip in Wyoming with our ranches five miles apart."

Jean's brown eyes sparkled. She and Jack had many differences of
opinion, but to-night Jack was tired and her cousin decided not to
answer back.

"Have you gotten your lessons, Frieda?" Jack asked gently a moment
later, kissing her hand apologetically to Jean.

Frieda shook her head. She had two long blonde plaits, like a little
German girl, with a curl at the end of each one of them. Her cheeks were
a faint pink, and her nose tilted just enough to curl her lips up into a
smile.

"No," she replied calmly. "Jean offered to hear me recite, but I didn't
feel like it. You and Jean haven't studied your French for three
eve