y.

The big, gray, white-tailed squirrels crossed ahead of her on the
trail, scampered over the piny ground to hop on tree trunks, and there
they paused to watch her pass. The vociferous little red squirrels
barked and chattered at her. From every thicket sounded the gobble of
turkeys. The blue jays squalled in the tree tops. A deer lifted its
head from browsing and stood motionless, with long ears erect, watching
her go by.

Thus happily and dreamily absorbed, Ellen covered the forest miles and
soon reached the trail that led down into the wild brakes of Chevelon
Canyon. It was rough going and less conducive to sweet wanderings of
mind. Ellen slowly lost them. And then a familiar feeling assailed
her, one she never failed to have upon returning to her father's
ranch--a reluctance, a bitter dissatisfaction with her home, a loyal
struggle against the vague sense that all was not as it should be.

At the head of this canyon in a little, level, grassy meadow stood a
rude one-room log shack, with a leaning red-stone chimney on the
outside. This was the abode of a strange old man who had long lived
there. His name was John Sprague and his occupation was raising
burros. No sheep or cattle or horses did he own, not even a dog.
Rumor had said Sprague was a prospector, one of the many who had
searched that country for the Lost Dutchman gold mine. Sprague knew
more about the Basin and Rim than any of the sheepmen or ranchers.
From Black Butte to the Cibique and from Chevelon Butte to Reno Pass he
knew every trail, canyon, ridge, and spring, and could find his way to
them on the darkest night. His fame, however, depended mostly upon the
fact that he did nothing but raise burros, and would raise none but
black burros with white faces. These burros were the finest bred in ail
the Basin and were in great demand. Sprague sold a few every year. He
had made a present of one to Ellen, although he hated to part with
them. This old man was Ellen's one and only friend.

Upon her trip out to the Rim with the sheep, Uncle John, as Ellen
called him, had been away on one of his infrequent visits to Grass
Valley. It pleased her now to see a blue column of smoke lazily
lifting from the old chimney and to hear the discordant bray of burros.
As she entered the clearing Sprague saw her from the door of his shack.

"Hello, Uncle John!" she called.

"Wal, if it ain't Ellen!" he replied, heartily. "When I seen thet
white-faced jin