Star Ranch. "Now
watch, and you'll see. There!--see there?--in the middle by that post!
Each man will pick out one of his own horses and rope him; then he'll
lead him out and saddle him, and the deed's done."

"I guess that's easier to say than to do," observed Bertha, dryly. "I
notice there aren't any of those horses just hanging 'round waiting to
be caught!"

"No, there aren't, to-day," laughed Genevieve; "though some of the
horses will do just that, at times--specially Long John's. They're
pretty lively now, however, and it _does_ take some skill to make a nice
job of it when they're jamming and jostling like that. But the boys are
equal to it. We've got some splendid ropers!" This time there was a note
of very evident pride in the voice of the mistress of the Six Star
Ranch.

It was a brief but exciting time that followed, filled, as it was, with
the shouts of the boys--the jeers at some failure, the cheers at some
success--the thud of the horses' hoofs, the swirl of the skillfully
flung ropes. It was almost as exciting when the boys, their horses once
caught, led out, and saddled, rode off for their morning's work. To
Cordelia, especially, it was an experience never to be forgotten.

"Going to turn cowboy, Miss Cordelia?" asked Mr. Hartley, with a smile,
as he met the girl coming into the house a little later. Mr. Hartley, in
his broad-brimmed hat, and his gray tweed trousers tucked into his high
boots, looked the picture of the prosperous ranchman at home.

Cordelia showed a distinctly shocked face.

"Oh, no, sir!" she cried.

"Don't think you could learn to swing the rope--eh?" he teased.

"Mercy, no!"

A half-proud, wholly-gratified smile crossed the man's face.

"It isn't as easy as it looks to be," he said. "Once in a while we get a
tenderfoot out here, though, who thinks he's going to learn it all in a
minute--or, rather, do it without any learning. But to be a good roper,
one has to give it long, hard practice. The best of 'em begin young.
Reddy, the crack roper in my outfit, tells me he began with his mother's
clothes-line at the age of four years, with his rocking-horse for a
victim. It seems there was a picture in one of his books of a cowboy
roping a pony, and--"

Mr. Hartley stopped, as if listening. From the rear of the house had
sounded the creak of the windmill crank. The man turned, entered the
hall, and crossed to the window. Then he shook his head with a smile.

"I'm afraid Genevie