iness. He died, an
embittered and disappointed man, in the obscurity of the United States
Senate.

The Bar Cross brand was the sole fruit of that ambition. Other ranches
had dwindled or vanished; favored by environment the Bar Cross, almost
alone, withstood the devastating march of progress. It was still a
mark of distinction to be a Bar Cross man. The good old customs--and
certain bad old customs, too--still held on the Bar Cross Range, fifty
miles by one hundred, on the Jornado. Scattered here and there were
smaller ranches: among them the V H--the Vorhis Ranch.

Stella Vorhis and John Wesley, far out on the plain, rode through
the pleasant afternoon. The V H. Ranch was in sight now, huddled
low before them; beyond, a cluster of low hills rose from the plain,
visible center of a world fresh, eager, and boundless.

The girl's eye kindled with delight as it sought the far horizons,
the misty parapets gleaming up through the golden air; she was one
who found dear and beautiful this gray land, silent and ensunned. She
flung up her hand exultingly.

"Isn't it wonderful, John Wesley? Do you know what it makes me think
of? This:

_"'... Magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn!'_

"Think, John! This country hasn't changed a bit since the day Columbus
set out from Spain."

"How true! Fine old bird, Columbus--he saw America first. Great head
he showed, too, getting himself named Christopher. Otherwise you might
have said, 'the day Antony discovered Cleopatra'--or something like
that. Wise old Chris!"

Stella's eyes narrowed reflectively.

"John Wesley, you've been reading! You never used to know anything
about Mark Antony."

"I cribbed that remark from Billy Beebe and he swiped it from a
magazine. I don't know much about Mark, even this very yet. Good old
easy Mark!"

"That's the how of it. You've been absorbing knowledge from those
pardners of yours. Your talk shows it. You're changed a lot--that way.
Every other way you're the same old Wes!"

"Now, that sounds better!" said Pringle in his most complacent tones.
"I want to talk about myself, always, Stella May Vorhis; we've come
thirty miles and I've heard Christopher Foy, Foy, Foy, all the way!
It's exasperating! It's sickening!"

But Stella was not to be flustered. She held her head proudly.

"It's you that have been talking about him. I told you you'd like him,
John Wesley."

"Yes, you did--and I do. He's