“An’, Miss Majesty,” he concluded, “I reckon if Gene Stewart was ridin’ fer me, thet grinnin’ Greaser would hev hed a bump in the dust before now.”

Madeline had been wavering between sobriety and laughter until Stillwell’s mention of his ideal of cowboy chivalry decided in favor of the laughter.

“I am not convinced, but I surrender,” she said.  “You have only some occult motive for driving me away.  I am sure that handsome Don Carlos is being unjustly suspected.  But as I have seen a little of cowboys’ singular imagination and gallantry, I am rather inclined to fear their possibilities.  So good-by.”

Then she rode with Florence up the long, gray slope to the ranch-house.  That night she suffered from excessive weariness, which she attributed more to the strange working of her mind than to riding and sitting her horse.  Morning, however, found her in no disposition to rest.  It was not activity that she craved, or excitement, or pleasure.  An unerring instinct, rising dear from the thronging sensations of the last few days, told her that she had missed something in life.  It could not have been love, for she loved brother, sister, parents, friends; it could not have been consideration for the poor, the unfortunate, the hapless; she had expressed her sympathy for these by giving freely; it could not have been pleasure, culture, travel, society, wealth, position, fame, for these had been hers all her life.  Whatever this something was, she had baffling intimations of it, hopes that faded on the verge of realizations, haunting promises that were unfulfilled.  Whatever it was, it had remained hidden and unknown at home, and here in the West it began to allure and drive her to discovery.  Therefore she could not rest; she wanted to go and see; she was no longer chasing phantoms; it was a hunt for treasure that held aloof, as intangible as the substance of dreams.

That morning she spoke a desire to visit the Mexican quarters lying at the base of the foothills.  Florence protested that this was no place to take Madeline.  But Madeline insisted, and it required only a few words and a persuading smile to win Florence over.

From the porch the cluster of adobe houses added a picturesque touch of color and contrast to the waste of gray valley.  Near at hand they proved the enchantment lent by distance.  They were old, crumbling, broken down, squalid.  A few goats climbed around upon them; a few mangy dogs barked announcement of visitors; and then a troop of half-naked, dirty, ragged children ran out.  They were very shy, and at first retreated in affright.  But kind words and smiles gained their confidence, and then they followed in a body, gathering a quota of new children at each house.  Madeline at once conceived the idea of doing something to better the condition of these poor Mexicans, and with this in mind she decided to have a look indoors.  She fancied she might have been an apparition, judging