g exhilarating ride over the foothills, and she felt the
blood leaping again in her arteries at the turning from the comfortable
channels of house life into the lure of the open.

"I was never meant for indoors," she thought. "I think I can stand it up
here a while longer if he'll give me more of this exercise."

That night as they sat in the library alone, he lost his habitual
reticence and talked--through her guidance--of himself and his life.

"Does it satisfy you always," she asked. "Wouldn't you like the power of
ruling fates and fortunes in a city way?"

"No;" he replied, almost fiercely. "When a man has circled the herd and
risen in his stirrups to throw a lariat and watched through the night by
the light of camp fires, nothing else calls to him quite the same way. I
couldn't endure to live a bottled up life--the life of cities. Men of my
kind are branded; they may wander, but they always come back. After you
once get on intimate terms with the mountain and the blue overhead, other
things don't satisfy."

She drew him into further conversation regarding his former life,
responding briefly but with an undercurrent of interest that put him on
good terms with himself.

In the days that followed, these rides became frequent, and despite the
fact that they seldom spoke, they unconsciously grew into a closeness of
companionship which saved her from the ennui of unwonted domestic
environment. The intense vitality of the young foreman attracted her, and
she began to have a friendly sympathy for him, and even to feel a tranquil
satisfaction in his reposeful silence. At times she was sorely tempted to
show him the same little impish self she had portrayed on their first ride
up the trail, and sometimes her conscience would sting her that she had
failed to confide in him as Mrs. Kingdon had advised, but his gray eyes
looked out so very straight and with such calm kindliness--the gaze of a
man who has lived the simple life in the open--and with so little affinity
to the eyes of the world-wise, that she found herself incapable of
carrying out her intentions.

One night when the men had arranged to have another dance, Pen paid
unusual attention to her dress. She came downstairs, a slight little
figure in a soft, flower-sprigged, old-fashioned muslin (designed
originally for bedroom windows and donated by Mrs. Kingdon), her hair
softly brought to the crown of her head, with little curling rings about
her brow. A freshnes