he had a youthful glow and flush, the clear
tan of outdoors, a face that lacked the soft curves and lines of Eastern
women, and her eyes were light gray, like crystal, steady, almost
piercing, and her hair was a beautiful bright, waving mass.

Florence's sister was the elder of the two, a stout woman with a strong
face and quiet eyes. It was a simple fare and service they gave to their
guest; but they made no apologies for that. Indeed, Madeline felt
their simplicity to be restful. She was sated with respect, sick of
admiration, tired of adulation; and it was good to see that these
Western women treated her as very likely they would have treated any
other visitor. They were sweet, kind; and what Madeline had at first
thought was a lack of expression or vitality she soon discovered to
be the natural reserve of women who did not live superficial lives.
Florence was breezy and frank, her sister quaint and not given much to
speech. Madeline thought she would like to have these women near her
if she were ill or in trouble. And she reproached herself for a
fastidiousness, a hypercritical sense of refinement that could not help
distinguishing what these women lacked.

"Can you ride?" Florence was asking. "That's what a Westerner always
asks any one from the East. Can you ride like a man--astride, I mean?
Oh, that's fine. You look strong enough to hold a horse. We have some
fine horses out here. I reckon when Al comes we'll go out to Bill
Stillwell's ranch. We'll have to go, whether we want to or not, for when
Bill learns you are here he'll just pack us all off. You'll love old
Bill. His ranch is run down, but the range and the rides up in the
mountains--they are beautiful. We'll hunt and climb, and most of all
we'll ride. I love a horse--I love the wind in my face, and a wide
stretch with the mountains beckoning. You must have the best horse
on the ranges. And that means a scrap between Al and Bill and all
the cowboys. We don't all agree about horses, except in case of Gene
Stewart's iron-gray."

"Does Mr. Stewart own the best horse in the country?" asked Madeline.
Again she had an inexplicable thrill as she remembered the wild flight
of Stewart's big dark steed and rider.

"Yes, and that's all he does own," replied Florence. "Gene can't keep
even a quirt. But he sure loves that horse and calls him--"

At this juncture a sharp knock on the parlor door interrupted the
conversation. Florence's sister went to open it. She re