we came out here," she said, "and it seemed
very strange at first to be away from all my friends, but girl-like I
enjoyed the change, and it was not for a year or two that I began to
realize what life on an Arizona ranch really meant. Your father and
mother were very good to me, but they were absorbed in each other, and
in their work, and you were too little to be any real company to me.
There was plenty of work to be done, and I tried to do my share, but
there were many lonely times when I rebelled bitterly against fate. I
used to think of those times later on, after the accident, and then it
seemed strange that I should ever have fretted over such foolish
trifles, but they were very real to me once."

Marjorie took her aunt's hand and kissed it. Demonstrations of affection
were rather rare in the Graham family, but the girl could never think of
that accident without a lump rising in her throat. She had heard the
story dozens of times. She had even a dim recollection of the day it had
happened--the day on which her pretty, merry young aunt had started for
a canter over the prairie, on a wild young bronco, and had been carried
home white and unconscious, never to ride, or even walk again. Just how
it had all happened nobody ever knew. An Indian boy, coming suddenly out
of a cabin, had shouted and waved his hands to a companion. The noise
had frightened the bronco, and he had dashed off at full speed, and
Jessie Graham, experienced horsewoman though she was, had lost her
balance, and been thrown violently to the ground, striking her back
against a sharp stone. That was eight years ago, and during all that
time her life had been passed, first in bed, and then in a wheeled
chair.

Marjorie rose suddenly. There were some things it wasn't possible to
make the best of, and it was wisest not to talk about them.

"It's getting a little cooler," she said irrelevantly; "I think I'll
saddle Roland, and go for a ride before supper. You're an angel, Aunt
Jessie, and I'm glad you told me how you used to feel. I'm ashamed of
myself, but it makes the disappointment easier to bear because you
understand. Shall I wheel you back to the house, or is there anything
else I can do for you before I go?"

Fifteen minutes later, Marjorie mounted astride her bay pony, was
trotting briskly out over the prairie. Her aunt watched her from the
porch of the ranch house.

"Poor little girl," she said, with a sigh, as horse and rider
disappeared f