“Oh, do you? Well, if your memory for faces is so good, maybe you can tell me which one of these cowboys wasn’t clean-shaven.”
“Merely a matter of elimination,” replied Helen, merrily. “It was not Nick; it was not Nels; it was not Frankie. There was only one other cowboy with us, and he had a short, stubby growth of black beard, much like that cactus we passed on the trail.”
“Oh, I was afraid of it,” moaned Dorothy. “I knew he was going to do it. That horrible little smiling demon, Monty Price!”
A favorite lounging-spot of Madeline’s was a shaded niche under the lee of crags facing the east. Here the outlook was entirely different from that on the western side. It was not red and white and glaring, nor so changeable that it taxed attention. This eastern view was one of the mountains and valleys, where, to be sure, there were arid patches; but the restful green of pine and fir was there, and the cool gray of crags. Bold and rugged indeed were these mountain features, yet they were companionably close, not immeasurably distant and unattainable like the desert. Here in the shade of afternoon Madeline and Edith would often lounge under a low-branched tree. Seldom they talked much, for it was afternoon and dreamy with the strange spell of this mountain fastness. There was smoky haze in the valleys, a fleecy cloud resting over the peaks, a sailing eagle in the blue sky, silence that was the unbroken silence of the wild heights, and a soft wind laden with incense of pine.
One afternoon, however, Edith appeared prone to talk seriously.
“Majesty, I must go home soon. I cannot stay out here forever. Are you going back with me?”
“Well, maybe,” replied Madeline, thoughtfully. “I have considered it. I shall have to visit home some time. But this summer mother and father are going to Europe.”
“See here, Majesty Hammond, do you intend to spend the rest of your life in this wilderness?” asked Edith, bluntly.
Madeline was silent.