mestone Rim. A hard winter and the inroads of sheep "broke"
the cattleman who sold out and moved away, while Esther Tisdale shifted
for herself that she might not be a burden. She was nearly twenty now,
and, in the democratic community never had felt or been made to feel
that her position was subservient or inferior. Therefore when her work
was done and she bounded up the stairs to Dr. Harpe's door she felt sure
of a welcome.

"It's only Essie Tisdale," she said in her merry voice as she rapped and
peered into the room.

"Come in, Essie; I'm lonesome as the deuce!"

It was some time later that Mrs. Terriberry sailing through the corridor
in her dressing-sacque and petticoat, with her feet scuffling in Mr.
Terriberry's carpet-slippers, had the stone-china water-pitcher dashed
from her hand as she turned a corner.

"Why, Essie!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mrs. Terriberry!"

"What's the matter?" She looked wonderingly at the girl's crimson face.

"Don't ask me! but don't expect me to be friends with that woman again!"

"Have you had words--have you quarrelled with Dr. Harpe?"

"Yes--yes; we quarrelled! But don't ask me any more! I won't--I can't
tell you!" the girl replied fiercely as she rushed on and slammed the
door of her room behind her.

In her office, Dr. Harpe was sitting by the window panic-stricken, sick
with the fear of the one thing in the world of which she was most
afraid, namely, Public Opinion.

She was deaf to the night sounds of the town; to the thick,
argumentative voices beneath her window; to the scratched phonograph
squeaking an ancient air in the office of the Terriberry House; to the
banging of an erratic piano in the saloon two doors above; to the sleepy
wails of the butcher's urchin in the tar-paper shack one door below, and
to a heap of snarling dogs fighting in the deep, white dust of the
street.

She glanced through the window and saw without seeing, the
deputy-sheriff escorting an unsteady prisoner down the street followed
by a boisterous crowd. In a way she was dimly conscious that there was
something familiar in the prisoner's appearance, but the impression was
not strong enough to rouse her from her preoccupation, and she turned to
walk the floor without being cognizant of the fact that she was walking.

She suddenly threw both hands aloft.

"I've got it!" she cried exultingly. "The very thing to counteract her
story. It'll work--it always does--and I know that I can do it!"

In he