her frank smile.

"Dot, what in the world could you expect?" asked Helen. "Haven't you
been dying to be kissed?"

"No."

"Well, you acted like it, then. I never before saw you in a rage over
being kissed."

"I--I wouldn't care so much if the brute hadn't scoured the skin off my
face. He had whiskers as sharp and stiff as sandpaper. And when I jerked
away he rubbed my cheek with them."

This revelation as to the cause of her outraged dignity almost
prostrated her friends with glee.

"Dot, I agree with you; it's one thing to be kissed, and quite another
to have your beauty spoiled," replied Helen, presently. "Who was this
particular savage?"

"I don't know!" burst out Dorothy. "If I did I'd--I'd--"

Her eyes expressed the direful punishment she could not speak.

"Honestly now, Dot, haven't you the least idea who did it?" questioned
Helen.

"I hope--I think it was Stewart," replied Dorothy.

"Ah! Dot, your hope is father to the thought. My dear, I'm sorry to
riddle your little romance. Stewart did not--could not have been the
offender or hero."

"How do you know he couldn't?" demanded Dorothy, flushing.

"Because he was clean-shaven to-day at noon, before we rode out. I
remember perfectly how nice and smooth and brown his face looked."

"Oh, do you? Well, if your memory for faces is so good, maybe you can
tell me which one of these cowboys wasn't clean-shaven."

"Merely a matter of elimination," replied Helen, merrily. "It was not
Nick; it was not Nels; it was not Frankie. There was only one other
cowboy with us, and he had a short, stubby growth of black beard, much
like that cactus we passed on the trail."

"Oh, I was afraid of it," moaned Dorothy. "I knew he was going to do it.
That horrible little smiling demon, Monty Price!"

*****

A favorite lounging-spot of Madeline's was a shaded niche under the lee
of crags facing the east. Here the outlook was entirely different from
that on the western side. It was not red and white and glaring, nor so
changeable that it taxed attention. This eastern view was one of the
mountains and valleys, where, to be sure, there were arid patches; but
the restful green of pine and fir was there, and the cool gray of crags.
Bold and rugged indeed were these mountain features, yet they were
companionably close, not immeasurably distant and unattainable like the
desert. Here in the shade of afternoon Madeline and Edith would often
lounge under a low-branched