His interest grew to the extent that he issued from his dugout early of mornings in order to see her depart for her mysterious destination. He waited at unseemly hours in the vicinity of Jonathan's curious dwelling to behold her as she came back home. On one of these occasions, when he was turning to go, after watching her throw the saddle on her broncho, fasten the straps, leap into the saddle and speed away, to be swallowed up by the distances, Jonathan came out of the topsy turvy house and found him. "Walk with me awhile," implored Walsingham, a sudden sense of the loneliness of the prairie having come upon him with the vanishing of the girl. Jonathan, always ready to idle, filled his pipe and walked with him. "Who is the girl?" asked Hugh. "She is a little girl we adopted," explained Jonathan. "I don't know who she is or where she came from. Her mother blew away in a cyclone. That is all I know about her." "A pretty girl," commented Hugh. "And a mighty good girl," added Jonathan. "I don't know what we'd do without her." "You seem to do without her a good deal," said Hugh, relighting his pipe which the wind had blown out. "She is away from home most of the time." "Cyclona's playing nurse," said Jonathan. "She's taking care of a child whose mother has deserted him. He is a good big boy now, but Cyclona's taken care of that child ever since he come into the world putty near," and he recited the story of Celia's heartlessness. "What sort of man is the father?" queried Hugh with a manner of exaggerated indifference. "Seth? Why, Seth's one of the finest men you ever saw. And he's good-looking, too. Sunburnt and tall and kind of lank, but good-lookin'. He's got some crazy notion, Seth has, of buildin' a Magic City on his claim some time or other, but aside from that there ain't no fault to find with Seth. He's a mighty fine man." * * * * * On the plains all waited for letters. Walsingham was no exception to the rule. Few came. He was too far away. Younger sons of impoverished noblemen are sent to far-off places purposely to be forgotten. He employed the intervals between such stray notes as he received in studying Cyclona. He wondered what his aristocratic sisters would do if they were obliged to saddle their own ponies. He wondered what they would do if they were obliged to wear such gowns as Cyclona wore. And yet Cyclona was charming in those old gowns, blue and pink cotton in the summer and a heavy blue one for winter wear. Constantly in the open she possessed the beauty of perfect health. Her brown cheeks glowed like old gold from the pulsing of rich blood. An athletic poise of her shoulders and carriage of head added grace to her beauty. But her chief charm for the young Englishman, surfeited with the affectation of English girls, lay in her natural simplicity.