“I haven’t enough influence. I do use what I have. But it does no good. Woman’s vanity is such that she will sacrifice even the lives of innocent little birds for the sake of adding to her finery. O, I am really disgusted with my sex when I think of it.” “Why not use the other power you have and make women see this as you do?” Tibby looked at Donald thoughtfully. “I’ll do it. When I get back to—” “Civilization, you mean. Why not say it? I shall not be offended.” “The first service I attend in church I’ll make every woman feel the weight of the poor bird upon her hat, if possible. It shall be the heaviest sin upon her conscience. She shall feel the ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ But you have not told me what you did kill.” “Nothing except prairie chickens and a gray wolf.” “Are there wolves here?” “Not right here, perhaps, but not many miles away. You may see them in the gray of the morning standing on the top of the sandhills, apparently taking a survey of the country.” “‘The gray wolf like a sentinel stands,’” quoted Tibby. “Do you know I don’t like to think of hunting or killing anything and I think the reason so many accidents happen to hunters is because the spirits of the victims come back to play mischief with the guns.” “If you really believe that, you are a spiritist, are you not?” Donald asked absently as he looked at the glowing face before him. “It is a fact there are a great many accidents among hunters.” “Yes, guns are discharged unaccountably. If we may believe the Eastern religions that our souls are reclothed in the form of animals, why may not one of these freed spirits avenge itself; that is, if it be permitted to drift about in ether and overlook us?” “Or if there is an animal’s heaven. You know Professor Russell saw the spirit of my cat.” “So I heard. It must have been a spirituelle cat.” “You look very pretty with your hat tilted in that way,” Donald said irrelevantly. “Thank you, but such a remark is entirely foreign to the subject under discussion and in very bad taste,” replied Tibby, with a pout of her red lips. “To punish you, I shall not speak to you for a long time.” “Won’t you,” he answered dreamily, his eyes partly closed against the half-veiled sun. “Most assuredly not,” she answered with a finality that should have been convincing. Then as she did not speak they rode on for some time, silently gazing, as their horses walked slowly, at the beauty of the wonderful farm-lit expanse before them, the gray fields, the dotted river wold, the sand hills in the distance, the adobe dwellings and the adjacent stacks, all silently touched by the golden glory of the setting sun. “I like this gray landscape,” Tibby said, breaking the harmony of silence. “Its very monotony is restful. A symphony in gray and gold. A light gray sky, a darker ground, and a girdle of gray hills against the horizon. The whole sun-tipped. Even the river is hidden to-day, usually shining in evidence.