Colin West, the father of Henry, was a Scotchman, of education, tact and good judgment; a man respected by everyone with whom he came in contact. Fate or fortune had placed him in the West while still a young man. His wife was half Indian blood, and yet one of the most refined and intellectual of women. Her son was proving himself an able manager of the vast herds of cattle and buffalo which Colin West had accumulated, and since his death four years ago Henry had had the entire management of the ranch. Here James spent three long, delightful summers. Here he learned to ride and “rope” like any of the cowboys on the range. It was always with reluctance that he left, after the fall round-up, to take up his studies again. How glad he was to return now, in hopes of soon regaining his health and strength. He had hesitated in bringing his sister into this new life, and yet he could not leave her alone in New York. She was wild with delight when he asked her to come, for ever since she had listened to his never-ending, interesting tales of the West had she hoped that she, too, might come to know its lure. She loved out-of-door life, and the few months of her vacation in the city were usually spent riding, so that she had become a very good horsewoman, and, best of all, had grown to strong and perfect womanhood. She was girlish, and her twenty years rested lightly on her shoulders. Her optimistic and sunshiny disposition won for her the love and admiration of all her friends, and even strangers smiled at her happy face. As most of her life had been spent at school among sweet-faced nuns, she had grown up uncontaminated by the world, pure-minded and whole-souled. Her faith was implicit, and never yet had she had a rude awakening to the fact that all were not true nor good, nor even sincere. Several times she had considered seriously becoming a nun herself, but her love of nature, of out-of-doors, of friends, of her father and brother, of the world generally, made her pause. Then, too, she knew her bright and merry nature could never endure the strict confines of the cloister and the shadow of the somber black robes. “No, I cannot, for I am not good enough,” was always her mental decision. And now that her father was dead and she and James were alone, she had put the thought from her mind entirely. The nuns realized what her work would be, for her talents in music and painting were extraordinary; and she also had that gift, which few possess, of making a success of anything she undertook. Failure was not in her vocabulary, and she never used the word, either mentally or audibly. “Why in the world, Bess, have you put on your riding togs?” Bess looked up with surprise and replied: “Why, James, are we not going horseback to the _HW_ Ranch?”