rmonious and
restful. It is, moreover, silent, silent as a dream world, and so flooded
with light that the senses ache with the stress of it.

Through this gorgeous land of mist, of stillness, and of death, a few
years ago a pale young man (seated beside the driver) rode one summer day
in a voiceless rapture which made Bill McCoy weary.

"If you'd had as much of this as I have you'd talk of something else," he
growled, after a half dozen attempts at conversation. Bill wasn't much to
look at, but he was a good driver and the stranger respected him for it.

Eventually this simple-minded horseman became curious about the slim
young fellow sitting beside him.

"What you doing out here, anyhow--fishing or just rebuilding a lung?"

"Rebuilding two lungs," answered the tourist.

"Well, this climate will just about put lungs into a coffee-can,"
retorted Bill, with official loyalty to his country.

To his discerning eye "the tourist" now became "a lunger." "Where do you
live when you're to home?"

"Connecticut."

"I knew it."

"How did you know it?" The youth seemed really interested to know.

"I drove another fellow up here last fall that dealt out the same kind of
brogue you do."

This amused the tourist. "You think I have a 'brogue,' do you?"

"I don't think it--I know it!" Bill replied, shortly.

He was prevented at the moment from pursuing this line of inquiry by the
discovery of a couple of horsemen racing from a distant ranch toward the
road. It was plain, even to the stranger, that they intended to intercept
the stage, and Bill plied the lash with sudden vigor.

"I'll give 'em a chase," said he, grimly.

The other appeared a little alarmed, "What are they--bandits?"

"Bandits!" sneered Bill. "Your eyesight is piercing. Them's _girls_."

The traveler apologized. "My eyes aren't very good," he said, hurriedly.

He was, however, quite justified in his mistake, for both riders wore
wide-rimmed sombreros and rode astride at a furious pace, bandanas
fluttering, skirts streaming, and one was calling in shrill command, "OH,
BILL!"

As they neared the gate the driver drew up with a word of surprise. "Why,
howdy, girls, howdy!" he said, with an assumption of innocence. "Were you
wishin' fer to speak to me?"

"Oh, shut up!" commanded one of the girls, a round-faced, freckled romp.
"You know perfectly well that Berrie is going home to-day--we told you
all about it yesterday."

"Sure thing!" exclaimed Bill.