It was a beautiful morning toward the end of August when Bess Fletcher donned her new brown riding skirt, which her deft fingers had just completed, and came out to her waiting horse. The weather during the few previous weeks had been unusually hot and dry, so that riding had been anything but pleasant. James and Henry had been busy with the hay crop, and Mrs. West and Bess had spent the time with their sewing and reading. During the night it rained, a gentle, copious rain—the first in weeks. Everything was refreshed, and everyone’s spirits were aroused from enervation and lethargy. The girl sniffed the fresh, scented air as she drew on her riding gloves. How the perfume from the refreshed pines and firs came floating across from the hills! The great stacks of new hay emitted an intoxicating odor, and busy bees buzzed about, drunk with sweetness. Mrs. West had come to the gate to make a request just as Bess placed her foot into the stirrup and was adjusting her divided skirt as she seated herself in the saddle. Her well-groomed horse shone like satin, and his dainty foot persistently pawed the damp earth, impatient for a run after his long confinement and rest. Bess leaned over and was patting the arched neck and trying to quiet him with soft words as she gathered from Mrs. West the several errands to be done. “And then, little Mother, after I have seen Mrs. White for you, do you mind if I cross on the ferry and ride over toward Paul Trahan’s ranch to meet James and Henry on their return?” “Are you quite sure, dear, that you can find the place? It is at least ten miles from the ferry,” replied Mrs. West, and in her voice rang a solicitous tone. “Oh, yes! You need not feel alarmed. I am sure I could find the ranch, but most likely I’ll meet the boys long before I reach it,” assured Bess, as she touched Mauchacho with the quirt and then threw a dainty kiss to the white-haired woman whose face still wore an anxious look. A sharp pang clutched at the gentle woman’s heart as she watched the rider melting into the distance. She had scarcely thought before that sooner or later Bess might be so melting out of her life—that life of which she had grown to be such an integral part. How unconsciously had her love grown day by day! How dependent had she become upon the girl’s judgment and suggestions! And yet, the day was surely inevitable whose declining rays would not linger on a sweet, girlish face near the window, but rather pierce a woman’s heart with loneliness and pain. “But then,” she thought, “it will be a long time yet before Mr. Davis will take her away and leave my arms empty once more, and doubly lone.”