f the prairie. And although, possibly, his fifty-five
years might have lain more easily upon him he was a man of commanding
appearance and one not to be passed unnoticed.

Mrs. Abbot was the wife of the doctor of the Foss River Settlement and
had known John Allandale from the first day he had taken up his abode on
the land which afterwards became known as the Foss River Ranch until
now, when he was acknowledged to be a power in the stock-raising world.
She was a woman of sound, practical, common sense; he was a man of
action rather than a thinker; she was a woman whose moral guide was an
invincible sense of duty; he was a man whose sense of responsibility and
duty was entirely governed by an unreliable inclination. Moreover, he
was obstinate without being possessed of great strength of will. They
were characters utterly opposed to one another, and yet they were the
greatest of friends.

The music had ceased again and once more the walls were lined with
heated dancers, breathing hard and fanning themselves. Suddenly John
Allandale saw a face he was looking for. Murmuring an excuse to Mrs.
Abbot, he strode across the room, just as his niece, leaning upon the
arm of the Hon. Bunning-Ford, approached where he had been standing.

Mrs. Abbot glanced admiringly up into Jacky's face.

"A successful evening, Joaquina?" she interrogated kindly.

"Lovely, Aunt Margaret, thanks." She always called the doctor's wife
"Aunt."

Mrs. Abbot nodded.

"I believe you have danced every dance. You must be tired, child. Come
and sit down."

Jacky was intensely fond of this old lady and looked upon her almost as
a mother. Her affection was reciprocated. The girl seated herself and
"Lord" Bill stood over her, fan in hand.

"Say, auntie," exclaimed Jacky, "I've made up my mind to dance every
dance on the program. And I guess I sha'n't Waste time on feeding."

The girl's beautiful face was aglow with excitement. Mrs. Abbot's face
indicated horrified amazement.

"My dear child, don't--don't talk like that. It is really dreadful."

"Lord" Bill smiled.

"I'm so sorry, auntie, I forgot," the girl replied, with an irresistible
smile. "I never can get away from the prairie. Do you know, this evening
old Lablache made me mad, and my hand went round to my hip to get a grip
on my six-shooter, and I was quite disappointed to feel nothing but
smooth silk to my touch. I'm not fit for town life, I guess. I'm a
prairie girl; you can bet your lif