"I'm not enough of a hypocrite," she added slowly, "to pretend not to understand what you mean. Yes, I believe if there is a man in the world I could care enough for to marry, I could live here or anywhere with him and be perfectly happy; but that isn't possible. I'm of the wrong disposition." The soft color in the cheek grew warmer, the brown eyes sparkled. "I know myself well enough to realize that any man I could care for wouldn't live out here. He'd be one who did things, and did them better than others; and to do things he'd have to be where others are. No, I never could live here." Scotty dropped the dead cigarette stump into an ash-tray, and brushed a stray speck of dust from his sleeve. "In other words, you could never care for such a man as your father," he remarked quietly. The girl instantly realized what she had said, and springing up she threw her arms impulsively about her father's neck. "Dear old daddy!" she said. "There isn't another man in the world like you! I love you dearly, dearly!" The soft lips touched his cheek again and again. But for the first time in her life that Florence could remember, her father did not respond. Instead, he gently freed himself. "Nevertheless," he said, steadily, "the fact remains. You could never marry a man like your father,--one who had no desire to be known of men, but who simply loved you and would do anything in his power to make you happy. You have said it." Scotty rose slowly, the youthfulness of his movements gone, the expression of age unconsciously creeping into the wrinkles at his temples and at the corners of his mouth. "You have hurt me, Florence." The girl was at once repentant, but her repentance came too late. She dropped her face into her hands. "Oh, daddy, daddy!" she pleaded, but could not say another word. Indeed, there was nothing to be said. Scotty moved silently about the room, closed a book he had laid face downward upon the table, picked up a paper which had fallen to the floor, and wound the clock for the night. At the doorway to his sleeping-room he paused. "You said something at dinner to-night about wanting some hounds, Florence. I know where I can buy a pair, and I'll see that you have them." He opened the door slowly, then quietly closed it. "And about our leaving here. I have always expected to go sometime, but I hoped it wouldn't be necessary for a while yet." He paused, fingering the knob absently. "I'm ready, though, whenever you and your mother wish." This time the door closed behind him, and, alone within the room, the girl sobbed as though her heart would break. CHAPTER IX A RIFFLE OF PRAIRIE