little--by her fifteen-year-old cousin, daughter of the celebrated
James C. Hess, of the equally celebrated Hess Railway System. Nita was
a good little girl, and a nice little girl--in spite of occasional
lingual lapses--but only a sense of duty to dear old Uncle Jim had
induced Clyde to forego her European trip that she might accompany Nita
to the Pacific coast for the benefit of that young lady's health, which
Clyde privately considered as sound as the national currency system.

In a democratic moment she had refused Hess' offer of a private car,
and she now rather regretted it. She had a headache, and the great
coils of red-gold hair seemed to weigh tons. It would have been a
relief to have it taken down and brushed by a deft-fingered maid. But
the maid also had been left behind. And that, she decided, was a
mistake, also.

Clyde Burnaby was alone in the world. Her father's modest fortune,
under the able management of his executor, Jim Hess, had expanded
wonderfully. So far as money was concerned, no reasonable wish of hers
need remain ungratified. She was accomplished, travelled, and very
good-looking. She had refused half a dozen offers of hands, hearts,
and fortunes--the latter equal to her own--and also two titles
unaccompanied by fortunes, with hearts as doubtful collateral. She
kept her own bachelor establishment in Chicago, gave to charity with
discretion, took a quiet part in the social life of her set, dabbled
in art and literature, had a few good friends, and was generally
considered a very lucky, amiable, and handsome young woman.

But just then she was bored with the trip and with Nita, whose
enthusiasms she could not share. The heat of the Pullman seemed
stifling, the odour of coal unbearable. The land was dead-brown, flat,
dreary, monotonous. Leaning back with closed eyes, she longed for the
deck of a liner, the strong, salt breezes, the steady pulse of the
engines--even for cold rain from a gray sky, sullen, shouldering seas,
and the whip of spindrift on her cheeks. Beside her Nita prattled
steadily.

"We're going to stop, Clyde. Here's a station. Look at the yard with
all the cows in it. I wonder if those men are cowboys. They don't look
like the pictures. But isn't it funny how those ponies stand with the
reins hanging down and not tied at all? I wish _my_ pony would stand
that way. Here come two men on horseback. My, but they're riding fast!
I wonder if they are trying to catch the train?"

T