When the Williams and Matthews came in from the missionary meeting, Eleanor was standing under the centre light leaning against the table with her back to the door.

“Feeling better, dear?” asked Mrs. Williams.

“So much better that I’m going to bed to sleep every minute for the first night for a week.”

“Surely,” cried Williams clapping his hands.  “A MacDonald never had nerves.”

Matthews was trying to read her face as she shook hands saying good-night.

“No,” she answered his look, shaking her head, “I must decide for myself, Mr. Matthews.”

The three stood talking in the room she had left.

“Do you think we ought to have told her?” asked Mrs. Williams solicitously.

“No!  Leave Wayland t’ tell her himself t’morrow!  A make no doubt that buckboard won’t hold five people!  Is it six o’clock we set out?  A’m longin’ for m’ own wee uns!”

“One thing,” declared Williams, throwing himself on a chair, “if Wayland runs, I’m going to stump it for him!  We’ve got to get busy, Matthews!  The old order changeth!  We’ve got to keep up with the procession!”

If you had not known her utter conservatism as to all things pertaining to women, you could not appreciate the response of the missionary’s wife. (She was an ultra-anti-suffragette.)

“I am sure, my dear,” she cried, “I know a couple of hundred people on our summer circuit in the Upper Pass that I could make vote right.”

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE UNITED STATES OF THE WORLD

“Wayland, for a man who’s had his head cut off, you look uncommon joyous, tho’ you’re a bit white about the chops.”

“Had a shave,” answered Wayland dryly.

The yellow buckboard was rattling over the pressed brick pavement of Smelter City towards the suburbs.  Williams was in the front seat with Matthews, who was driving.  Eleanor and Mrs. Williams were in the second seat, with Wayland standing behind as he had stood that night going up to the Rim Rocks.  Behind trotted two range ponies with empty saddles.

“I thought, perhaps, you’d prefer driving out beyond the suburbs,” he had explained.  “There’s a good trail up to the hog’s back opposite the Brule.”

They watched her leap down from the buckboard and mount the saddle, a little awkward at first whether to put the right knee fore or aft, from her Eastern training to a side saddle; and side saddles in the range country are rare as low neck gowns and tuxedo coats; but once she had caught the far stirrup, riding was riding.  She had the pace, and the two figures loped off up the burn for the hill known as the Brule, Wayland turning and waving his hat.

“Now the Lord have mercy on your soul, Williams.  This ride will settle it; an’ A’m not darin’ t’ hope which way it goes!  A ’m not keen to go back empty-handed with yon little old lady payin’ m’ expenses heavy an’ generous; but yet—­but yet—­”