"I can't see but that it's plain enough," said his father. "He simply prefers threshing on a Wyoming ranch to a house-party or a wedding or a tennis tournament or the Adirondacks. Let him alone. Maybe a little work won't hurt him." "Hurt him!" cried a certain gray-haired old gentleman, slapping his knees. "Hurt him! It'll be the best thing that ever happened to him, in _my_ opinion! Work, and being with that little girl out there!" "And I did so want Mrs. Van Arsdale to see him!" continued his mother. "I'd planned all sorts of things for September. Read the letter again, Carver." Mr. Carver Standish II read the letter. It was brief and to the point. "'DEAR DAD: "'I'm not coming home till school opens. I'm going to stay out here and help thresh. Mr. Keith is short on hands, and he says I'll do. I wanted to help for nothing, they've all been so good to me--but he says I mustn't. You needn't send me any money, because I'm going to be earning two dollars a day, and maybe three if I'm any good. Please don't let Mother object. It won't do any good anyhow, because I've already signed a contract to stay. Mr. Keith didn't want to draw it up, but I insisted. He does it with the other men, and I'm no better than the rest. "'I've got a great scheme about bringing the business West when I'm through college. It sure is some country out here! Love to Grandfather. "'CARVER.'" That Carver Standish III preferred threshing on a Wyoming ranch to a house-party was the subject of conversation at every social affair for a week and more. Poor Mrs. Carver Standish II found explanations most difficult. "Carver's so in love with the country and riding and all that he just won't come back," she said. But Carver's grandfather, the old Colonel, found no such difficulty. "My grandson," he said, his fine head thrown back, and his blue eyes glowing with pride, "my grandson is discovering the dignity of labor on a Wyoming ranch!" CHAPTER XX COMRADES Wyoming, to be appreciated, should be explored on horseback and not viewed from the observation platform of a limited train. Barren stretches of sagebrush and cactus, and grim, ugly buttes guard too well the secret that golden wheat-fields lie beyond them; the rugged, far-away mountains never tell that their canyon-cut sides are clothed with timber and carpeted with a thousand flowers; and tired, dusty travelers, quite unaware of these things, find themselves actually longing for Nebraska to break the monotony!