ir fire, kissed her hand to Frieda and
marched off, smiling wickedly at Jack, who was drawing as though her
life depended on it. She wished to be an object lesson of industry to
slothful Jean.

When Jean had entirely disappeared down the side of the ravine, Jack
stopped to gaze sadly at her morning's work. "I am afraid I am not a
natural-born artist," she declared aloud. "It may be all right for
geniuses to work from life, but I can't make any headway without a
teacher. I wish Cousin Ruth had not put French and drawing into her list
of what a young woman should know. They may be easy enough for girls to
learn in her beloved old Vermont, but they are pretty hard work out
here. I am afraid the ranch girls don't know any of the things they
should." Jack's red lips parted. "But it's lots of fun to know the
unnecessary things like fishing and riding. Gee whiz, I can't stand
working any longer."

Jack leaned over the ledge of rock. Her drawing fluttered down to her
sister. "Here Frieda, decorate your cave with that work of art. It looks
like a drawing made by the Indians in pre-historic days. You won't mind,
will you, if I go away for a while? I won't be out of calling distance
and I won't stay long. If you need me, just sing out."

Frieda smiled. Her blue eyes looked like a reflection of the clear sky
above them. She had so little idea of feeling any fear, that she did not
even trouble to answer Jack's question. There were no more wild animals
in the gorge. Besides, the ranch girls knew that few animals would
attack them, except in self-defense.

Frieda climbed down the rocky cliff to fill an old teakettle with water
from a spring not far below and then hung it over the fire on a crooked
stick. If the water boiled long before Jean and Jack returned, the
pleasant, sizzly sound would keep her company. Frieda's house was in
order, so she set out her luncheon dishes, arranging them around in a
circle on the floor of her cave. In the center, in a broken teacup, she
placed the bunch of violets she had worn in her trip across the plain.
Still the girls had not returned; Frieda might have studied, but she
decided that it would be more fun to enlarge the crevice in the rocks,
which formed the storehouse for her kitchen and dining-room utensils.

She struck the rock sharply with a large stone. A piece chipped off,
then another. It was red sandstone and not very hard and Frieda was
banging away with all her might, when she gave a