ng
the essentially proper clothing for his work. For the first time he
realized the potency of carefully chosen attire. As he rode back with
the pastured pony trailing behind him, he felt peculiarly ashamed of
himself for feeling ashamed of his clothing. Silently he saddled
Chinook, accepted her thanks silently, and strode to his cabin. When he
reappeared he was wearing a new shirt, his blue silk bandanna, and his
silver-studded chaps. He would cache those chaps at his first camp out,
and get them when he returned.

Bronson came to the doorway.

Dorothy put her finger to her lips. "Lorry is stunned, I think. Do I
look as spiff as all that?"

"Like a slim young cavalier; very dashing and wonderful, Peter Pan."

"Not a bit like Dorothy?"

"Well, the least bit; but more like Peter Pan."

"I was getting tired of being just Dorothy. That was all very well when
I wasn't able to ride and camp and do all sorts of adventures.

"And that isn't all," she continued. "I weigh twelve pounds more than I
did last summer. Mr. Shoop weighed me on the store scales. I wanted to
weigh him. He made an awful pun, but he wouldn't budge."

Bronson nodded. "I wouldn't ride farther than the Big Spring, Peter.
It's getting hot now."

"All right, daddy. I wish that horrid old story was finished. You never
ride with me."

"You'll have some one to ride with you when Alice comes."

"Yes; but Alice is only a girl."

Bronson laughed, and she scolded him with her eyes. Just then Lorry
appeared.

Bronson stooped and kissed her. "And don't ride too far," he cautioned.

Lorry drove the pack-animals toward Bronson's cabin. He dismounted to
tighten the cinch on Chinook's saddle.

The little cavalcade moved out across the mesa. Dorothy rode behind the
pack-animals, who knew their work too well to need a lead-rope. It was
_her_ adventure. At the Big Spring, she would graciously allow Lorry to
take charge of the expedition.

Lorry, riding behind her, turned as they entered the forest, and waved
farewell to Bronson.

To ride the high trails of the Arizona hills is in itself an
unadulterated joy. To ride these wooded uplands, eight thousand feet
above the world, with a sprightly Peter Pan clad in silver-gray
corduroys and chatting happily, is an enchantment. In such
companionship, when the morning sunlight dapples the dun forest carpet
with pools of gold, when vista after vista unfolds beneath the high
arches of the rusty-brown giants of the