The sun was just rising over the end of the foothills, and its rays shot up into the blue sky like altar flames; its red-gold beams made the trunks of the quaking asps up the cañon look like the pillars of a church. Unseen among the leaves a robin was chanting, rapt and blissful as a cloistered saint. That solitary voice of joy seemed all at once the voice of the morning--of the desert morning--monotonous, yet thrillingly significant to one who could see what the desert might mean. For an instant the girl's spirit flamed up in the knowledge of things yet to come. Then Mrs. Robinson called her, and she heard once more in the room behind her the homely clatter of the household assembling to breakfast. "Them men folks comin'?" Mrs. Robinson called. "It's on the tap of six now." As she looked at the clock, she filled the oatmeal bowls and ordered the children to their places at the table. Mrs. Robinson prided herself on serving her meals piping hot, without keeping the men waiting. While the men were coming in, the ranchwoman quickly filled the cups from the big blue enamel coffeepot, and set platters of eggs, plates of hot biscuits, and dishes of bacon at intervals on the table. Wondering and admiring, Harry watched her. Mrs. Robinson motioned the girl to a place distinguished by a clean napkin, and at the same time introduced her to the young men. "Let me make you acquainted with Miss Holliday; boys. This here's Pete Mosher, and Con Gardner, and Lance Fitch--Miss Harriet Holliday. She and her brother have homesteaded just east of here." The young men bowed and murmured, "Pleased to meet you, ma'am." Mrs. Robinson herself did not come to the table, but standing near by with her hands on her hips, watched to see that every one had all he wanted. Harry felt she had learned more this morning about how to do a great deal rapidly and efficiently than a month of solitary struggle on the homestead would have taught her. It made her feel as if she must get back there as soon as possible and "do things." Mr. Robinson was telling the men about Rob's trouble with the sheep herder; all of them, it seemed, had had trouble with Joyce's men. "Joyce is the meanest of all the sheepmen who come through here," said Lance Fitch. "Never gives a homesteader a bit of mutton, and grabs every blade of grass in sight." "That's how he got so rich," remarked Pete Mosher; "by hoggin' the pasture and stealin' homesteads. I bet he's never hired a herder that he didn't make at least one homestead off him." "Can't something be done to stop him?" asked Harry. "Couldn't some one go and ask him for a job herding, and then, when Joyce tried to get him to file on a homestead, have him arrested and prove him guilty?" "Say, you catch Joyce and we'll send you to the legislature," promised Robinson, with a laugh.