heerfully from the rear seat--but the voice was
not the prim voice of "auntie." "Do you have thunder and lightning out
here, Dick?"

"We do," assented Dick. "We don't ship it from the East in refrigerator
cars, either. It grows wild."

The cheerful voice was heard to giggle.

"Richard," came in tired, reproachful accents from a third voice behind
him, "you were reared in the East. I trust you have not formed the
pernicious habit of speaking slightingly of your birthplace."

That, Dick knew, was his mother. She had not changed appreciably since
she had nagged him through his teens. Not having seen her since, he was
certainly in a position to judge.

"Trix asked about the lightning," he said placatingly, just as he was
accustomed to do, during the nagging period. "I was telling her."

"Beatrice has a naturally inquiring mind," said the tired voice, laying
reproving stress upon the name.

"Are you afraid of lightning, Sir Redmond?" asked the cheerful
girl-voice.

Sir Redmond twisted his neck to smile back at her. "No, so long as it
doesn't actually chuck me over."

After that there was silence, so far as human voices went, for a time.

"How much farther is it, Dick?" came presently from the girl.

"Not more than ten--well, maybe twelve--miles. You'll think it's twenty,
though, if the rain strikes 'Dobe Flat before we do. That's just what
it's going to do, or I'm badly mistaken. Hawk! Get along, there!"

"We haven't an umbrella with us," complained the tired one. "Beatrice,
where did you put my raglan?"

"In the big wagon, mama, along with the trunks and guns and saddles, and
Martha and Katherine and James."

"Dear me! I certainly told you, Beatrice--"

"But, mama, you gave it to me the last thing, after the maids were in
the wagon, and said you wouldn't wear it. There isn't room here for
another thing. I feel like a slice of pressed chicken."

"Auntie, I want some p'essed chicken. I'm hungry, auntie! I want some
chicken and a cookie--and I want some ice-cream."

"You won't get any," said the young woman, with the tone of finality.
"You can't eat me, Dorman, and I'm the only thing that looks good enough
to eat."

"Beatrice!" This, of course, from her mother, whose life seemed
principally made up of a succession of mental shocks, brought on by her
youngest, dearest, and most irrepressible.

"I have Dick's word for it, mama; he said so, at the depot."

"I want some chicken, auntie."

"There is no ch