th the Nortons' relatives or friends. You
understand, don't you?" Jack held out her hand as though she did not
know just what to do or say. Jean wouldn't utter a word to help her.

Frank Kent shook Jack's hand warmly and this time he did not seem
offended.

"All right," he answered sadly. "But if there is ever anything I can do
to help you, I am going to do it, whether we are friends or not."

And though Jack and Jean did not see how this strange fellow could ever
be mixed up in their affairs, they were comforted somehow by what he
promised.

"I am going over to Mrs. Simpson's this afternoon, Jean," Jack announced
a few minutes after their guest's departure. "I know people say that we
ranch girls never take anybody's advice, but just the same I am going to
ask Mrs. Simpson what we had better do about this Indian child. Will you
come along?"

Mrs. Simpson, the ranch girls' most intimate friend, and her husband
were the wealthiest ranch owners in that part of Wyoming. She was a
typical Western woman, with a big heart and a sharp tongue. She used to
lecture the girls and at the same time was awfully proud of their
courage and independence.

"I'm game, Jack," Jean agreed, "but I haven't any proper riding habit. I
wouldn't mind a bit if that wretched niece of Mrs. Simpson's wasn't
there. I wish you had seen how she stared at me the other day when I
called Mrs. Simpson, Aunt Sallie, as though we hadn't called her Aunt
all the days of our youth. Do you think Aunt Ellen could mend this for
me before we go?" Jean held up a green broadcloth riding habit very
much the worse for wear, with a long ugly rent in it.

"You need a new habit dreadfully, Jean," Jack declared. "I am afraid we
haven't any really proper clothes. The worst of it is, I don't know just
what we ought to have or where to get them. I wonder if we are too much
like boys?"

"What's the odds, Jack, so long as we are happy," Jean sang out
cheerfully. "Besides, Jim says that money hasn't been flowing in to
Rainbow Ranch any too plentifully lately. It takes pretty much all he
can get hold of to run things, so I thought I wouldn't trouble about
another habit. But the idea of that fashionable Miss Laura Post, from
Miss Beatty's school, New York City, staring at me with her china-blue
eyes does rattle me. She and her mother treat us exactly as though we
were a Wild West show. Besides it is my unpleasant impression that I had
this same tear in my skirt when I rode