At the summit they drew rein to breathe the horses. Before them lay the valley of the “Dripping Spring Wash.” For miles the belt of white sand in the bottom stretched away darkened with clumps of drab sage-brush, or with tall wavy lines which they knew must be cactus. Whiter than the sand, far out in the valley, a tent gleamed. Here and there a few moving specks betokened range cattle. Framing it all were great mountains, as irregular and barren as floe ice,—blue, purple, and brown, with streaks of yellow where the hot rays of the sun struck upon bare earth. All the detail of the rocky contour showed in the clear air. The mountains at the end of the valley, forty miles away, seemed as distinct as if within a mile. In silence the riders sat their horses, looking straight before them. “I never knew how big life could be until I saw Arizona,” exclaimed Jean. “I never knew how big life could be until—” “Until what, Mr. Loring?” Loring’s answer was to guide the horses into the trail that led down to the Wash. In a short while they reached the bottom, and rode out into the valley, where wandering “mavericks,” or faggot-laden burros had pounded innumerable hard paths. Jean shook the bridle of her horse, and calling back over her shoulder, “Shall we run them?” was off in a flash. Stephen, urging on his pony, soon caught up with her, and side by side they galloped hard up the valley. Leaning forward in his saddle, he could watch the rich color rush across the girl’s face, as the speed set her blood dancing. Her head was tossed backward, throwing out the clean molded chin, and perhaps emphasizing the hint of obstinacy concealed in its rounded finish. Her bridle hand lay close on the horse’s neck, the small gloved fingers crushing the reins. From the amount of attention that Loring was, or rather was not, paying to his horse, he richly deserved a fall; but the fates spared him. Perhaps they, too, were engaged in watching the girl. With a sigh, Jean pulled her horse down to walk. “That was splendid! Why can’t one always be riding like that?” Loring looked at her, amused by the exuberance of her spirits. “A bit hard on the horses as a perpetual thing, otherwise perfect,” he answered. She turned to him suddenly. “Have you no enthusiasms?” “I used to have,” answered Stephen, “but they were not of exactly the right kind. In fact they made me what I am.” “What are you?” she asked, looking at him directly. “A failure—and rather worse, because I am a poor failure. There is just enough left in me to make me realize the truth, but not enough to compel me to do anything about it.” Jean thought for a minute, then, with sincere pity in her face, she asked, “Why?”