The time she wrote her name upon the geyser will always remain the great event in Maw's life. When she makes down her bedquilt bed in the pine woods, from which she can hear the music of the hotel orchestra when the nocturnal dance has begun, and can see the searchlight playing on the towering pillar of Old Faithful, once more in its twenty-four daily essays from the bowels of the mysterious earth shooting up into the mysterious blackness of the night sky, Maw on her hands and knees says to herself: "I'm glad my name ain't on that thing. It was too little to go with that, even if for a minute I felt like somebody." Speaking of the midnight and the music, sometimes I go over to the hotel to tread a measure with Stella O'Cleave, able for a moment to forget Stella's father in the opulent beauty of Stella herself. Her mother is what is called a fine figure of a woman, and so will Stella be some day. Sometimes, when we have left the dance floor to sit along the rail where the yellow cars will line up next morning to sweep Stella away within a day after she and her putties have come into my young life, I may say that I find Stella O'Cleave not difficult to look upon. I always feel a sense of Oriental luxury, as though I had bought a new rug, when Stella turns on me the slumberous midnight of her eyes. I am enamored of the piled black shadows of Stella's hair, even as displayed in the somewhat extreme cootie garages which, in the vernacular of the A. E. F., indicate the presence of her ears. I admire the long sure lines which her evidently expensive New York tailor has given to hers; they are among the best I have seen in the park. I could wish that the heels on Stella's French shoes were less than five inches high. I could wish that she did not wrap her putties, one from the inside out, and the other from the outside in. But these are details. The splendor of her eyes, the ripe redness of her lips, the softness of her voice, combined, have disposed me to forgive her all. "There are times," sighed Stella that evening, beneath the moon, as we sat against the log rail and listened to the jazz, "out here in these mountains, when I feel as though I were a wild creature, like these others." "My dear," said I, "I can believe you. Your putties do look wild." "Listen," said she to me. "You do not get me." The sob of the saxophone came through the window near by, the froufrou of the dancers made a soft susurration faintly audible. I looked into Stella's dark eyes, at her clouded brow. "Come again, loved one," said I to her. "What I mean to say," she resumed, "is that there are times when I feel as though I did not care what I did or what became of me out here." My hand fell upon her slender fingers as they lay twitching in the twilight. "Stella," I exclaimed, "lit-tel one, if that is the way you really feel--or the way really you feel--or really the way you feel--why don't you go down to Jackson's Hole and try a congressional lunch?"