She had ridden horses in Westwood—bareback when no one had been looking, and with a side-saddle at other times—but she discovered no side-saddle in Dawes. However, she did encounter no difficulty in unearthing a riding-habit with a divided skirt, and though she got into that with a pulse of trepidation and embarrassment, she soon discovered it to be most comfortable and convenient. And Dawes did not stare at her because she rode “straddle.” At first she was fearful, and watched Dawes’s citizens furtively; but when she saw that she attracted no attention other than would be attracted by any good-looking young woman in more conventional attire, she felt more at ease. But she could not help thinking about the sanctimonious inhabitants of Westwood. Would they not have declared their kindly predictions vindicated had they been permitted to see her? She could almost hear the chorus of “I-told-you-so’s”—they rang in her ears over a distance of many hundreds of miles! But the spirit of the young, unfettered country had got into her soul, and she went her way unmindful of Westwood’s opinions. For three days she continued her search for tidings of her father, eager and hopeful; and then for the remainder of the week she did her searching mechanically, doggedly, with a presentiment of failure to harass her. And then one morning, when she was standing beside her horse near the stable door, ready to mount and fully determined to pursue the Carrington rumor to the end, the word she sought was brought to her. She saw a horseman coming toward her from the direction of Dawes. He was not Parsons—for the rider was short and broad; and besides, Parsons was spending most of his time in Dawes. The girl watched the rider, assured, as he came nearer, that he was a stranger; and when he turned his horse toward her, and she saw he _was_ a stranger, she leaned close and whispered to her own animal: “Oh, Billy; what if it _should_ be!” An instant later she was watching the stranger dismount within a few feet of where she was standing. He was short and stocky, and undeniably Irish. He was far past middle age, as his gray hair and seamed wrinkles of his face indicated; but there was the light of a youthful spirit and good-nature in his eyes that squinted at the girl with a quizzical interest. With the bridle-rein in the crook of his elbow and his hat in his hand, he bowed elaborately to the girl. “Would ye be Miss Harlan, ma’am?” he asked. “Yes,” she breathed, her face alight with eagerness, for now since the man had spoken her name the presentiment of news grew stronger. The man’s face flashed into a wide, delighted grin and he reached out a hand, into which she placed one of hers, hardly knowing that she did it. “Me name’s Ben Mullarky, ma’am. I’ve got a little shack down on the Rabbit-Ear—which is a crick, for all the name some locoed ignoramus give it. You c’ud see the shack from here, ma’am—if ye’d look sharp.”