u?"

"Not since you got home," said Carol. "I know you will get her. I like
you, Prince."

"Do you?" He was boyishly pleased. "Does--does David?"

Carol laughed. "Yes, and so does Julia," she teased.

Prince laughed, too, shamefacedly, but he dared not ask, "Does Connie?"

He turned his horse quickly and paused to say, "You'd better get your
husband inside. He will chill in spite of the rugs. It is winter,
to-night. Good-by."

"He will get her," said Carol confidently, when she returned to David.
"He is nice, don't you think so? Maybe he would be perfectly all
right--in the city. Connie could straighten him out."

"Yes, brush off the dust, and give him an opera hat and a dinner coat and
he would not be half bad."

"He is not half bad now, only--not exactly our kind."

"Women are funny," said David slowly. "I believe Connie likes his kind,
just as he is, and would not have him changed for anything."

At first, Prince had no difficulty in following the wide roll of Connie's
wheels, for no other cars had gone that way. But once or twice he had to
drop from the saddle and examine the tracks closely to make sure of her.
Then came the snow, and the tracks were blurred out. Prince was in
despair.

"Three roads here," he thought rapidly. "If she took that one she will
come to Marker's ranch, and be all right. If she took the middle road
she will make Benton. But this one, it winds and twists, and never gets
any place."

So on the road to the left, that led to no place at all, Prince carefully
guided his weary horse, already beginning to stumble. He sympathized
with every aching step, yet he urged her gently to her best speed. Then
she slipped, struggled to regain her footing, struck a treacherous bit of
ice, and fell, Prince swinging nimbly from the saddle. Plainly she was
unable to carry him farther, so he helped her to her feet and turned her
loose, pushing on as fast as he could on foot.

Anxiously he peered into the gathering darkness, longing for the long
flash of yellow light which meant Connie and the matchless Harmer.

Suddenly he stopped. From away over the hills to his right, mingling
with the call of the coyotes, came the unmistakable honk of a siren. He
held his breath to listen. It came again, a long continued wail, in
perfect tune with the whining of the coyotes. He turned to the right and
started over the hills in the wake of the call.

Over a steep incline he plunged, and