most
divinely."

"There is a good deal you and the boys at Cedar don't know, Larry. Any
way, lots of people sing better than I do, but I should be angry with you
if I thought you were pleased."

The man smiled gravely. "That would hurt. I'm sorry for you, Hetty; but
again I'm glad. Now there's nothing to keep you in the city, you'll come
back to us. You belong to the prairie, and it's a better place than
this."

He spoke at an opportune moment. Since her cherished ambition had failed
her, Hetty Torrance had grown a trifle tired of the city and the round of
pleasure that must be entered into strenuously, and there were times when,
looking back in reverie, she saw the great silent prairie roll back under
the red sunrise into the east, and fade, vast, solemn, and restful, a cool
land of shadow, when the first pale stars came out. Then she longed for
the jingle of the bridles and the drumming of the hoofs, and felt once
more the rush of the gallop stir her blood. But this was what she would
not show, and her eyes twinkled a trifle maliciously.

"Well, I don't quite know," she said. "There is always one thing left to
most of us."

She saw the man wince ever so slightly, and was pleased at it; but he was,
as she had once told him in the old days, grit all through, and he smiled
a little.

"Of course!" he said. "Still, the trouble is that there are very few of us
good enough for you. But you will come back for a little?"

Miss Torrance would not commit herself. "How are they getting along at the
Range?"

"Doesn't your father write you?"

"Yes," said the girl, colouring a trifle. "I had a letter from him a few
days ago, but he seldom mentioned what he was doing, and I want you to
tell me about him."

The man appeared thoughtful. "Well," he said, "it's quite three months
since I spoke to him. He was stirring round as brisk as ever, and is
rolling the dollars in this year."

"But you used to be always at the Range."

The man nodded, but the slight constraint that was upon him did not escape
the girl. "Still, I don't go there so often now. The Range is lonesome
when you are away."

Miss Torrance accepted the speech as one made by a comrade, and perhaps
was wrong, but a tramp of feet attracted her attention then, and she
looked away from her companion. Driven by the railroad officials, and led
by an interpreter, a band of Teutons some five or six hundred strong filed
into the station. Stalwart and stolid, tow-hair