“Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t be a young lady for years. I hate to even think of it! But we must go down, Don. The sun says five o’clock, and it’s my last evening with father.” Her gray eyes, thoughtful and almost sad, swept the country before her. “I hate to leave you all,” she said softly, a little catch in her voice. “The valley and the creek and the cottonwoods and the prairie—all of you. And, most of all, the foot-hills. You know, Don,” she continued, turning toward him, “I think I like the foot-hills best. They’re so sort of friendly, and they don’t make you feel little like the mountains. You know what I mean!” He nodded with quick understanding. They turned their horses to look at the peaks towering above them. “Sometimes they really scare me,” she said almost in a whisper. “They’re so big, and look as though they knew so many things. Sometimes I wish they’d talk, and then I know if they did, I’d run and hide, I’d be so frightened at what they were going to say.” Her eyes left the mountains and swept across the nearer hills. Suddenly she grasped his arm, all excitement. “Hst, Don!” she whispered, her eyes gleaming. “There! Behind that clump of pine on the range! Not a quarter of a mile away! Bess and the new colt! I know the way she holds her head. Wait a minute! There she is! She’s seen us, and there she goes!” With a wild snort, which they could hear distinctly in the clear air, and a mad kick of the heels, the horse tore away across the range, her colt trying manfully with his long ungainly legs to keep near his mother. Months on the range had transformed Bess from a corral pet to a wild steed, suspicious even of her mistress, and mindful only of her safety and that of her colt. “A nice colt,” said Don, “and now she’s down this far she won’t go far away. Doesn’t your father brand this week? They’ll probably mark the little fellow with the rest.” “Yes, I suppose they will. That’s one thing I can’t bear to see—the branding. Father and Jim will be so glad to know about the colt. You can break it for me, Don, when it’s two years old.” “All right, I’ll not forget,” he promised. Then they turned again, and rode down the hill into the valley. This time they did not ford the creek, but turned north, following an old trail up the valley and through another gap in the hills a mile above. This brought them again to the open, where Virginia’s home lay—a long, rambling house with its back against the foot-hills and its front looking westward across the prairie. Tall cottonwoods shaded the brown road that led to it; and down this road, beneath the trees, they rode, more slowly now. A tall man, reading on the broad front porch, rose as they drew rein under the cottonwoods. “Come in to supper, Don,” he called cordially. “It’s all ready, and we’re glad to have you.”