one, every one; to realize the need of work, and in doing it to
find happiness.

She rode back across the mesa and down the trail, and, once more
upon the flat, she called to the horse and made him run. His
spirit seemed to race with hers. The wind of his speed blew her
hair from its fastenings. When he thundered to a halt at the
porch steps Madeline, breathless and disheveled, alighted with
the mass of her hair tumbling around her.

Alfred met her, and his exclamation, and Florence's rapt eyes
shining on her face, and Stillwell's speechlessness made her
self-conscious. Laughing, she tried to put up the mass of hair.

"I must--look a--fright," she panted.

"Wal, you can say what you like," replied the old cattleman, "but
I know what I think."

Madeline strove to attain calmness.

"My hat--and my combs--went on the wind. I thought my hair would
go, too. . . . There is the evening star. . . . I think I am very
hungry."

And then she gave up trying to be calm, and likewise to fasten up
her hair, which fell again in a golden mass.

"Mr. Stillwell," she began, and paused, strangely aware of a
hurried note, a deeper ring in her voice. "Mr. Stillwell, I want