Marjorie took her aunt's hand and kissed it. Demonstrations of affection were rather rare in the Graham family, but the girl could never think of that accident without a lump rising in her throat. She had heard the story dozens of times. She had even a dim recollection of the day it had happened--the day on which her pretty, merry young aunt had started for a canter over the prairie, on a wild young bronco, and had been carried home white and unconscious, never to ride, or even walk again. Just how it had all happened nobody ever knew. An Indian boy, coming suddenly out of a cabin, had shouted and waved his hands to a companion. The noise had frightened the bronco, and he had dashed off at full speed, and Jessie Graham, experienced horsewoman though she was, had lost her balance, and been thrown violently to the ground, striking her back against a sharp stone. That was eight years ago, and during all that time her life had been passed, first in bed, and then in a wheeled chair. Marjorie rose suddenly. There were some things it wasn't possible to make the best of, and it was wisest not to talk about them. "It's getting a little cooler," she said irrelevantly; "I think I'll saddle Roland, and go for a ride before supper. You're an angel, Aunt Jessie, and I'm glad you told me how you used to feel. I'm ashamed of myself, but it makes the disappointment easier to bear because you understand. Shall I wheel you back to the house, or is there anything else I can do for you before I go?" Fifteen minutes later, Marjorie mounted astride her bay pony, was trotting briskly out over the prairie. Her aunt watched her from the porch of the ranch house. "Poor little girl," she said, with a sigh, as horse and rider disappeared from view in a cloud of dust, "she bears her disappointment bravely, but it's hard--hard for her, and for us all." A footstep was heard, and her sister-in-law, Marjorie's mother, came out on the porch. Mrs. Graham had once been very pretty, but twelve years of hard work, and constant anxiety as to ways and means, had brought a careworn expression into the eyes that were so like Marjorie's, and the hand she laid on the back of Miss Graham's chair was rough and hardened from housework. "It's been a hot day, hasn't it?" she said, "but it's cooler now," and she smiled the brave, cheerful smile she had never lost through all their troubles and anxieties. "Juanita and I have put up six dozen jars of blackberries to-day; not a bad day's record, is it? Have you heard the whistle of the East Bound?" "I am not sure; I thought I heard a whistle about half an hour ago, but I have been with Marjorie in the playhouse. We have been having a talk." "Has she said anything about her disappointment?" "Yes, a little. She is bearing it splendidly, but it is a real grief to her, notwithstanding." Mrs. Graham sighed.