“It was Mark’s fault as much as Mr. Compton’s--more. He should have had a new map made of my claim; or, if he did have one made, he should have studied it more carefully. Anybody to look at it would assume that it touched the boundary line of your--Mr. Compton’s ranch.” “Well, Greg’ll get out of it some way. When he does sit up and take notice he doesn’t so much as wink, and so far as he knew or cared the rest of the world might have waltzed off into space. Lucky it hit him to buy the house and send that last five thousand before he snapped close on Amalgamated----” “What does Miss Miller have to say?” “Nothing much but ecstasies over my house. The Murphys had taste, it seems, so I won’t have to do a thing to it. Say, Ora, don’t you feel as if you’d like to go back?” Ora looked up and her face turned white. “Go back? I thought you wanted to stay over here for a year, at least. We haven’t half seen Europe yet--to say nothing of Egypt.” “Yes--I know--but sometimes I feel homesick. It isn’t only that I want to make Butte sit up; but--well, I suppose you’ll laugh, but I miss the mountains. I never thought much about them when I was there, but they’ve kind of haunted me lately.” “There are mountains in Europe.” “I know, but they’re just scenery. Our mountains are different.” Ora looked at her speculatively. It was not the first time that Ida had surprised her with glow-worms flitting across her spiritual night, although she seemed to be so devoid of imagination, or what she would have called superfluous nonsense, as to inspire her more highly organised friend with envy. Her mental and artistic development had been rapid and remarkable but uneven. She yawned through the opera and symphony concerts. She would always be bored by pictures unless she could read a “story” in them, although she had now mastered the jargon of art as well as most of her quick-witted country-women. In Florence and Rome she had “struck” after one morning of picture galleries, but she showed a spontaneous and curious appreciation of the architecture of the Renaissance. Ora had expected the usual ecstasies over the old castles of England and Germany, but although Ida admired them heartily, and even declared they made her feel “real romantic,” it was for the Renaissance palaces of France and of the cities they visited in Italy that she reserved her instant and critical admiration. Ora, who like most imaginative people played with the theory of reincarnation, amused herself visioning Ida in Burne-Jones costumes, haunting the chill midnight corridors of a Florentine palace, dagger in hand, or brewing a poisoned bowl. If Ida possessed a rudimentary soul, which suffered a birth-pang now and then, Ora had caught more than one glimpse of a savage temper combined with a cunning that under her present advantages was rapidly developing into subtlety. But Ida indulged too little in introspection to develop her inmost ego other than automatically. To