"I don't believe I ever did," agreed Undine, straightening her sombrero, and pushing back the tumbled hair from her eyes. "Must we go back now?"
"I'm afraid so. Father and Mother don't like to have me stay out after sunset. Look at the mountains; they seem just as near as ever, don't they? And yet we've been riding straight away from them all the time."
"Isn't it still?" whispered Undine, with a deep breath. "I feel as if I ought to whisper, though I don't know why. I don't suppose there's another living soul within miles of us, and yet I'm not the least bit afraid."
"There is, though," exclaimed Marjorie, in sudden astonishment. "Look at that man. Where can he be going?" And she pointed with her whip-handle to a solitary figure, carrying a suit-case, which was slowly advancing in their direction. "He isn't an Indian or a Mexican, either," she added eagerly; "he's a white man, and he must be on his way to the ranch. Nobody who isn't coming to the ranch ever takes this road."
"Perhaps he's a tramp," suggested Undine nervously. "We'd better hurry home."
But Marjorie scorned the suggestion.
"Nonsense," she said indignantly. "The idea of wanting to run away! Besides, we can't; he's making signs to us to wait for him. He wants to speak to us."
Undine did not feel at all sure of the wisdom of this proceeding, but there seemed nothing else to do, and in a few moments the stranger, who had quickened his pace at sight of the two girls, was within speaking distance. He was plentifully besprinkled with dust, and was looking decidedly warm and tired, but his appearance and manner were those of a gentleman.
"Excuse me for detaining you," he said, apologetically, "but can you tell me how far I am from Mr. Donald Graham's ranch?"
"I thought you must be coming to the ranch," said Marjorie, with a friendly smile; "it's about five miles from here."