responsibility which was his.

"Twenty-two," she repeated, "and not a relative living except a good-hearted but thoroughly irresponsible uncle. That child is to be pitied, John."

The old man sighed. He took no umbrage at his companion's brusquely-expressed estimation of himself. He was still watching the group at the other end of the room. His face was clouded, and a keen observer might have detected a curious twitching of his bronzed right cheek, just beneath the eye. His eyes followed the movement of a beautiful girl surrounded by a cluster of men, immaculately dressed, bronzed—and, for the most part, wholesome-looking. She was dark, almost Eastern in her type of features. Her hair was black with the blackness of the raven's wing, and coiled in an ample knot low upon her neck. Her features, although Eastern, had scarcely the regularity one expects in such a type, whilst her eyes quashed without mercy any idea of such extraction for her nationality. They were gray, deeply ringed at the pupil with black. They were keen eyes—fathomless in their suggestion of strength—eyes which might easily mask a world of good or evil.

The music began, and the girl passed from amidst her group of admirers upon the arm of a tall, fair man, and was soon lost in the midst of the throng of dancers.

"Who is that she is dancing with now?" asked Mrs. Abbot, presently. "I didn't see her go off; I was watching Mr. Lablache standing alone and disconsolate over there against the door. He looks as if some one had done him some terrible injury. See how he is glaring at the dancers."

"Jacky is dancing with 'Lord' Bill. Yes, you are right, Lablache does not look very amiable. I think this would be a good opportunity to suggest a little gamble in the smoking-room."

"Nothing of the sort," snapped Mrs. Abbot, with the assurance of an old friend. "I haven't half finished talking to you yet. It is a most extraordinary thing that all you people of the prairie love to call each other by nicknames. Why should the Hon. William Bunning-Ford be dubbed 'Lord' Bill, and why should that sweet niece of yours, who is the possessor of such a charming name as Joaquina, be hailed by every man within one hundred miles of Calford as 'Jacky'? I think it is both absurd and—vulgar."

"Possibly you are right, my dear lady. But you can never alter the ways of the prairie. You might just as well try to stem the stream of our Foss River in early spring as try to make the prairie man call people by their legitimate names. For instance, do you ever hear me spoken of by any other name than 'Poker' John?"

Mrs. Abbot looked up sharply. A malicious twinkle was in her eyes.

"There is reason in your sobriquet, John. A man who spends his substance and time in playing that fascinating but degrading game called 'Draw Poker' deserves no better title."

John Allandale made a "clucking" sound with his tongue. It was his way of expressing irritation. Then he stood erect, and glanced round the room in search of some one. He was a tall, well-built man and carried his fifty odd years fairly well, in spite of his gray hair and the bald patch at the crown of his head. Thirty years of a rancher's life had in no way lessened the easy carriage and distinguished bearing acquired during his upbringing. John Allandale's face and figure were redolent of the free life of the prairie. And although, possibly, his fifty-five years might have lain more easily upon him he was a man of commanding appearance and one not to be passed unnoticed.

Mrs. Abbot was the wife of the doctor of the Foss River Settlement and had known John Allandale from the first day he had taken up his abode on the land which afterwards became known as the Foss River Ranch until now, when he was acknowledged to be a power in the stock-raising world. She was a woman of sound, practical, common sense; he was a man of action rather than a thinker; she was a woman whose moral guide was an invincible sense of duty; he was a man whose sense of responsibility and duty was entirely governed by an unreliable inclination. Moreover, he was obstinate without being possessed of great strength of will. They were characters utterly opposed to one another, and yet they were the greatest of friends.

The music had ceased again and once more the walls were lined with heated dancers, breathing hard and fanning themselves. Suddenly John Allandale saw a face he was looking for. Murmuring an excuse to Mrs. Abbot, he strode across the room, just as his niece, leaning upon the arm of the Hon. Bunning-Ford, approached where he had been standing.

Mrs. Abbot glanced admiringly up into Jacky's face.

"A successful evening, Joaquina?" she interrogated kindly.

"Lovely, Aunt Margaret, thanks." She always called the doctor's wife "Aunt."

Mrs. Abbot nodded.

"I believe you have danced every dance. You must be tired, child. Come and sit down."

Jacky was intensely fond of this old lady and looked upon her almost as a mother. Her affection was reciprocated. The girl seated herself and "Lord" Bill stood over her, fan in hand.

"Say, auntie," exclaimed Jacky, "I've made up my mind to dance every dance on the program. And I guess I sha'n't Waste time on feeding."

The girl's beautiful face was aglow with excitement. Mrs. Abbot's face indicated horrified amazement.

"My dear child, don't—don't talk like that. It is really dreadful."

"Lord" Bill smiled.

"I'm so sorry, auntie, I forgot," the girl replied, with an irresistible smile. "I never can get away from the prairie. Do you know, this evening old Lablache made me mad, and my hand went round to my hip to get a grip on my six-shooter, and I was quite disappointed to feel nothing but smooth silk to my touch. I'm not fit for town life, I guess. I'm a prairie girl; you can bet your life on it, and nothing will civilize me. Billy, do stop wagging that fan."

"Lord" Bill smiled a slow, twinkling smile and desisted. He was a tall, slight man, with a faint stoop at the shoulders. He looked worthy of his title.

"It is no use trying to treat Jacky to a becoming appreciation of social requirements," he said, addressing himself with a sort of weary deliberation to Mrs. Abbot. "I suggested an ice just now. She said she got plenty on the ranch at this time of year," and he shrugged his shoulders and laughed pleasantly.

"Well, of course. What does one want ices for?" asked the girl, disdainfully. "I came here to dance. But, auntie, dear, where has uncle gone? He dashed off as if he were afraid of us when we came up."

"I think he has set his mind on a game of poker, dear, and—"

"And that means he has gone in search of that detestable man, Lablache," Jacky put in sharply.

Her beautiful face flushed with anger as she spoke. But withal there was a look of anxiety in her eyes.

"If he must play cards I wish he would play with some one else," she pursued.

"Lord" Bill glanced round the room. He saw that Lablache had disappeared.

"Well, you see, Lablache has taken a lot of money out of all of us. Naturally we wish to get it back," he said quietly, as if in defense of her uncle's doings.

"Yes, I know. And—do you?" The girl's tone was cutting.

"Lord" Bill shrugged. Then,—

"As yet I have not had that pleasure."

"And if I know anything of Lablache you never will," put in Mrs. Abbot, curtly. "He is not given to parting easily. The qualification most necessary amongst gentlemen in the days of our grandfathers was keen gambling. You and John, had you lived in those days, might have aspired to thrones."

"Yes—or taken to the road. You remember, even then, it was necessary to be a 'gentleman' of the road."

"Lord" Bill laughed in his lazy fashion. His keen gray eyes were half veiled with eyelids which, seemed too weary to lift themselves. He was a handsome man, but his general air of weariness belied the somewhat eagle cast of countenance which was his. Mrs. Abbot, watching him, thought that the deplorable