class of people, who have nothing else to do, talk a
certain jargon, and profess to follow certain teachers--who, nine times
out of ten, are charlatans or fools--that they are the intellectual and
spiritual leaders of the race. You are mistaking the very things that
prevent intellectual and spiritual development for the things you think
you want."

She did not answer his thought, but replied to his words. "And supposing
I am mistaken, as you say. Still, I do not see why it should matter so
to you."

He made a gesture of hopelessness and sat for a moment in silence. Then
he said slowly, "I fear you will not understand, but did you ever hear
the story of how 'Wild Horse Phil' earned his title?"

She laughed. "Why, of course. Everybody knows about that. Dear, foolish
old Phil--I shall miss him dreadfully." "Yes," he said significantly,
"you will miss him. The life you are going to does not produce Phil
Actons."

"It produced an Honorable Patches," she retorted slyly.

"Indeed it did _not_," he answered quickly. "It produced--" He checked
himself, as though fearing that he would say too much.

"But what have Phil and his wild horse to do with the question?" she
asked.

"Nothing, I fear. Only I feel about your going away as Phil felt when he
gave the wild horse its freedom."

"I don't think I understand," she said, genuinely puzzled.

"I said you would not," he retorted bluntly, "and that's why you are
leaving all this." His gesture indicated the vast sweep of country with
old Granite Mountain in the distance.

Then, with a nod and a look he indicated Professor Parkhill, who was
walking toward them along the side of the ridge skirting the scattered
cedar timber. "Here comes a product of the sort of culture to which you
aspire. Behold the ideal manhood of your higher life! When the
intellectual and spiritual life you so desire succeeds in producing
racial fruit of that superior quality, it will have justified its
existence--and will perish from the earth."

Even as Patches spoke, he saw something just beyond the approaching man
that made him start as if to rise to his feet.

It was the unmistakable face of Yavapai Joe, who, from behind an oak
bush, was watching the professor.

Patches, glancing at Kitty, saw that she had not noticed.

Before the young woman could reply to her companion's derisive remarks,
the object which had prompted his comments arrived within speaking
distance.

"I trust I am not intrud