s he.

"Well, let's figure on it," says I. "It'll take anyways four years to
develop Bonnie Bell ready to turn off the range, according to the way
such things run. She'll have to go to school for at least four years.
Why not let the thing run like it lays till then, while you send her
East?"

"You mean to some girls' college?" says he. "Well, I've been thinking
that all out. She'll have to go to the same kind of schools her ma did
and be made a lady of, like her ma." He looks a little more cheerful and
says to me: "That'll put it off four years anyways, won't it?"

"Shore it will," says I. "Maybe something will happen by that time. It
don't stand to reason that them syndicate people will be as foolish four
years from now as they are today; and like enough you can't sell the
range then nohow." That makes us both feel a lot cheerfuller.

Well, later on him and me begun looking up in books what was the best
college for girls, though none of 'em said anything about caring special
for girls that knew more of horses and cows than anything else. We seen
names of plenty of schools--Vassar and Ogontz and Bryn Mawr--but we
couldn't pronounce them names; so we voted against them all. At last I
found one that looked all right--it was named Smith.

"Here's the place!" says I to Old Man Wright; and I showed him on the
page. "This man Smith sounds like he had some horse sense. Let's send
Bonnie Bell to Old Man Smith and see what he'll do with her."

Well, we done that. Old Man Smith must of knew his business pretty well,
for what he done with Bonnie Bell was considerable. She was changed when
she got back to us the first time, come summer of the first year. I
didn't get East and I never did meet up with Old Man Smith at all; but I
say he must of knowed his business. His catalogue said his line was to
make girls appreciate the Better Things of life. He spelled Better
Things in big letters. Well, I don't know whether Bonnie Bell begun to
hanker after them Better Things or not, but she was changed after that
every year more and more when she come home. In four years she wasn't
the same girl.

She wasn't spoiled--you couldn't spoil her noways. She was as much
tickled as ever with the colts and the calves and the chickens and the
alfalfa and the mountains; and she could still ride anything they
brought along, and she hadn't forgot how to rope. Still, she was
different. Her clothes was different. Her hats was different. Her shoes
wa