s of boldly painted
stage scenery she had caught a glimpse of something that stirred her
soul. The feeling did not last. She could not call it back. She imagined
that the very boldness of the scene had appealed to her; she divined
that the man who painted it had found inspiration, joy, strength,
serenity in rugged nature. And at last she knew what she needed--to be
alone, to brood for long hours, to gaze out on lonely, silent, darkening
stretches, to watch the stars, to face her soul, to find her real self.

Then it was she had first thought of visiting the brother who had gone
West to cast his fortune with the cattlemen. As it happened, she had
friends who were on the eve of starting for California, and she made
a quick decision to travel with them. When she calmly announced her
intention of going out West her mother had exclaimed in consternation;
and her father, surprised into pathetic memory of the black sheep of the
family, had stared at her with glistening eyes. "Why, Madeline! You want
to see that wild boy!" Then he had reverted to the anger he still felt
for his wayward son, and he had forbidden Madeline to go. Her mother
forgot her haughty poise and dignity. Madeline, however, had exhibited
a will she had never before been known to possess. She stood her ground
even to reminding them that she was twenty-four and her own mistress. In
the end she had prevailed, and that without betraying the real state of
her mind.

Her decision to visit her brother had been too hurriedly made and acted
upon for her to write him about it, and so she had telegraphed him
from New York, and also, a day later, from Chicago, where her traveling
friends had been delayed by illness. Nothing could have turned her back
then. Madeline had planned to arrive in El Cajon on October 3d, her
brother's birthday, and she had succeeded, though her arrival occurred
at the twenty-fourth hour. Her train had been several hours late.
Whether or not the message had reached Alfred's hands she had no means
of telling, and the thing which concerned her now was the fact that she
had arrived and he was not there to meet her.

It did not take long for thought of the past to give way wholly to the
reality of the present.

"I hope nothing has happened to Alfred," she said to herself. "He was
well, doing splendidly, the last time he wrote. To be sure, that was a
good while ago; but, then, he never wrote often. He's all right. Pretty
soon he'll come, and how