“Never mind his impudence!” exclaimed Alfred; and then again he laughed. “Gene is all right, only you’ve got to know him. I’ll tell you what he did. He got hold of one of those newspaper pictures of you—the one in the Times; he took it away from here, and in spite of Florence he wouldn’t fetch it back. It was a picture of you in riding-habit with your blue-ribbon horse, White Stockings—remember? It was taken at Newport. Well, Stewart tacked the picture up in his bunk-house and named his beautiful horse Majesty. All the cowboys knew it. They would see the picture and tease him unmercifully. But he didn’t care. One day I happened to drop in on him and found him just recovering from a carouse. I saw the picture, too, and I said to him, ‘Gene, if my sister knew you were a drunkard she’d not be proud of having her picture stuck up in your room.’ Majesty, he did not touch a drop for a month, and when he did drink again he took the picture down, and he has never put it back.” Madeline smiled at her brother’s amusement, but she did not reply. She simply could not adjust herself to these queer free Western’ ways. Her brother had eloquently pleaded for her to keep herself above a sordid and brilliant marriage, yet he not only allowed a cowboy to keep her picture in his room, but actually spoke of her and used her name in a temperance lecture. Madeline just escaped feeling disgust. She was saved from this, however, by nothing less than her brother’s naive gladness that through subtle suggestion Stewart had been persuaded to be good for a month. Something made up of Stewart’s effrontery to her; of Florence Kingsley meeting her, frankly as it were, as an equal; of the elder sister’s slow, quiet, easy acceptance of this visitor who had been honored at the courts of royalty; of that faint hint of scorn in Alfred’s voice, and his amused statement in regard to her picture and the name Majesty—something made up of all these stung Madeline Hammond’s pride, alienated her for an instant, and then stimulated her intelligence, excited her interest, and made her resolve to learn a little about this incomprehensible West. “Majesty, I must run down to the siding,” he said, consulting his watch. “We’re loading a shipment of cattle. I’ll be back by supper-time and bring Stillwell with me. You’ll like him. Give me the check for your trunk.” She went into the little bedroom and, taking up her bag, she got out a number of checks. “Six! Six trunks!” he exclaimed. “Well, I’m very glad you intend to stay awhile. Say, Majesty, it will take me as long to realize who you really are as it’ll take to break you of being a tenderfoot. I hope you packed a riding-suit. If not you’ll have to wear trousers! You’ll have to do that, anyway, when we go up in the mountains.” “No!” “You sure will, as Florence says.” “We shall see about that. I don’t know what’s in the trunks. I never pack anything. My dear brother, what do I have maids for?”