There are after all two great classes into which humanity may be divided; those who are living purposefully, in the higher sense of the word, and those who are drifting. The purposeful people may and often do go wrong, but they have at least something to come back to when they right themselves. The drifters, on the other hand, are not only without help for themselves, but have a dreadful way of clutching at the purposeful ones and submerging them as well. The average man or woman who belongs to the former class has rather a horror of the drifter and likes to give him a wide berth. Something of this nature had passed through Scott's head more than once when he had been attracted by a woman whose outer and inner trappings did not correspond. It was so easy, however, to like this auburn-headed youngster, who seemed to have gotten over her anger against him and to be beginning to like him. She had such a warm, quick smile; such a caressing look in those serious eyes. She was so natural and easy with him; turned to him so quickly for his approval of what she said or did and took his uncouth criticism so sweetly. It was flattering--yes, that was just the point. Was she sincere, or was she planning to add him to the list of her victims? She would not do that. He was no boy, to be petted and thrown aside. About this time, they came upon the trail. The little river had followed the road for about a mile and a half, when across on its other bank Scott saw a deep rut leading out of it and continuing in a narrow line or trail so faint as to be easily overlooked. It wound along, lost itself in some chaparral and doubtless became clear again beyond. The chaparral being on a little rise, one could not see beyond it. "There we are," he called to the girl, who had fallen a little behind. "Wait a bit till I find a place to get down the bank on this side." Polly waited. Scott rode up and down the bank; finally he stopped. "We'll have to cross here," he called. "It's steep but it's all right. Follow me," and both he and his horse disappeared in the river bed. Polly rode up and took a look at the descent. "I won't go so far as to say that he picked a nasty one because he's out of temper, but it looks like it," she grumbled. "Go on, pony, if he can do it I suppose we can." The pony put her two forefeet over the edge of the descent and clung to solidity and sanity with her hind two. "I don't blame you. It's what I'd do if I had four legs and some fool tried to make me slide down a precipice. But we've got to go. That man's got a jaw like Napoleon and there's no use arguing with him." She looked down. Scott had reached the bottom and was smiling back at her. One had to admit that he had the sort of smile which warmed up the atmosphere. "Want me to come and lead her?" he offered.