IN the meantime, Marjorie, quite unconscious of the anxieties of her family regarding her future, was cantering away over the prairie on her bay pony. Having passed the last buildings of the ranch, and trotted through the Indian village, where more than one woman, and numerous copper-colored children smiled a friendly greeting, she turned her pony's head in the direction of the railroad. The nearest town was more than twenty miles away, but the line of the Santa Fé Railroad ran within a comparatively short distance from the ranch, and twice every day the stillness was broken by the whistles of the east and west bound trains, as they rushed by on their way across the continent, from Los Angeles to Chicago. To watch the trains go by had been one of the amusements of Marjorie's life, ever since she could remember. When she was a little girl, it had been a great treat to be taken by her father, on his big chestnut horse, and to have him draw rein in full view of the tracks, and wait to see the great iron horse come rushing by. As soon as she was old enough to ride out by herself, this spot had become one of her favorite afternoon excursions. There was a wonderful fascination in watching the long line of sleepers and day coaches, filled with people, and to wonder where they could all be going, and speculate as to what might be happening on the other side of those moving windows. Sometimes of late the longing to know more of the outside world, and to follow those ever moving cars, had become almost irresistible. "If I could only take one real journey I believe I should be happy forever," she would say to herself, and the hope of going to school at Albuquerque, two hundred miles away, had filled her with a wild kind of joy that was not unmixed with fear. But now that hope had been crushed, for the present at least, and Marjorie, who was a sensible little soul, had decided that it might be wiser to avoid watching the trains go by just now. For a week she had kept away from the line, at the hours when trains were likely to pass, but this afternoon she felt more cheerful. The little talk with her aunt had done her good, and she resolved to take Aunt Jessie's advice, and try to make the best of things. So when the pony manifested a desire to take the familiar turning, she let him have his way, and trotted on quite cheerfully toward the railroad. "I'm afraid we're too late to-day, Roland," she remarked aloud, as the pony plodded on bravely through the dust and heat. "I didn't hear the whistle, but I'm sure the East Bound must have passed, and the West Bound went through at two o'clock."