sultry quiet seemed to creep in for the siesta that was
characteristic of the country; in the afternoon the westering sun
peeped under the porch roof and painted the walls with gold bars
that slowly changed to red.

Madeline Hammond cherished a fancy that the transformation she
had wrought in the old Spanish house and in the people with whom
she had surrounded herself, great as that transformation had
been, was as nothing compared to the one wrought in herself. She
had found an object in life. She was busy, she worked with her
hands as well as mind, yet she seemed to have more time to read
and think and study and idle and dream than ever before. She had
seen her brother through his difficulties, on the road to all the
success and prosperity that he cared for. Madeline had been a
conscientious student of ranching and an apt pupil of Stillwell.
The old cattleman, in his simplicity, gave her the place in his
heart that was meant for the daughter he had never had. His
pride in her, Madeline thought, was beyond reason or belief or
words to tell. Under his guidance, sometimes accompanied by
Alfred and Florence, Madeline had ridden the ranges and had
studied the life and work of the cowboys. She had camped on the
open range, slept under the blinking stars, ridden forty miles a
day in the face of dust and wind. She had taken two wonderful
trips down into the desert--one trip to Chiricahua, and from
there across the waste of sand and rock and alkali and cactus to
the Mexican borderline; and the other through the Aravaipa
Valley, with its deep, red-walled canyons and wild fastnesses.

This breaking-in, this training into Western ways, though she had
been a so-called outdoor girl, had required great effort and