a moment Miss Graham gave
her wheeled chair a gentle push, which sent it rolling smoothly across
the porch of the ranch house, down the inclined plane, which served the
purpose of steps, to the lawn. It was very hot, the sun was blazing down
as only an Arizona sun can blaze, and not a breath of air was stirring.
But Miss Graham was accustomed to the heat and the glare. She paused for
a moment, gazing off over the vast prairie to the California mountains,
nearly a hundred miles away. She generally paused on that same spot for
one look, although the landscape was the only one she had seen in twelve
years. Then she moved on again, across the lawn, now parched and dry
from the long summer's heat, toward the stables and out-buildings. It
was before the smallest of these out-buildings, a tiny log cabin, that
she finally brought the chair to a standstill.

"Marjorie, are you there?"

There was a sound of some one moving inside, and a girl of fourteen,
with a book in her hand, appeared in the doorway. She was a pretty girl,
with soft light hair that curled over her temples, and bright, merry
blue eyes, but just now the eyes were red and swollen, and there were
unmistakable tear-marks on the girl's cheeks. At sight of the lady in
the wheeled chair, however, Marjorie's face brightened, and she hurried
forward, exclaiming remorsefully:

"Oh, Aunt Jessie dear, did you come all this way by yourself? I'm so
sorry. Do you want me to do something for you?"

"You needn't be sorry," said her aunt, smiling. "The exercise will do me
good, and I am quite proud of being able to manage this chair so easily.
I called you from the porch, but you didn't hear. Your mother and
Juanita are busy in the kitchen making jam, and I wasn't of any use
there, so I thought I would come and see what you were about. I felt
pretty sure of finding you in the old playhouse."

"Come in," said Marjorie, eagerly. "You haven't been in the playhouse in
ages; not since I grew too big to invite you to 'make-believe' tea, but
the door is just wide enough for the chair; don't you remember? Let me
help you in?" And springing to Miss Graham's side, Marjorie seized the
handle of the chair, and carefully guided it through the narrow
entrance, into the little house her father had built for her own special
use, and which had always been known as the playhouse. It might still
have been regarded as a playhouse, although its owner had grown too old
to play there. A couple of