unidentified noise. A slight boy in khaki breeches, shirt, and boots, with a wide-brimmed hat pulled down on his head, was conversing with a small gray burro, who lifted his long neck and emitted unearthly sounds, at which the boy laughed.

"If that pet belongs to you, young man, you might lead him off my premises."

"He's singing a hymn to the rising sun," said Bob, turning to him.

"My word, you are Bob sure enough now," he exclaimed.

"Comfy! No matter, you men like it."

"We certainly like it on you," he remarked in surprised admiration.

"Here's Bill," she interrupted him, as the guide rode up leading the ponies. He stared at Bob with delight.

"Got an extry boy in this party, ain't we? How many of ye is there?"

"According to my appetite there's six of me," she laughed. "I can't wait to go up any mountain before breakfast."

"Wa'al, I got to thinkin' 'bout that, and I jest made a camp up the trail 'bout a mile, and the coffee's bilin' right now. Git yer blankets and knapsacks out, and we'll strop 'em on, an' git up there before it biles over."

In ten minutes they were off after Bill, the ponies on the run. The air nipped with a touch of frost in it. The mountains stood out as clear as if they were cut out of coloured paper and pasted on the flat sky. As they neared Bill's camp the smell of coffee and bacon greeted them.

"All the perfumes of Arabia can't touch that for smell," laughed Paul.

Bill and a cowboy assistant served a breakfast that no New York hotel could surpass; the mountain air gave a zest that no hothouse fruit ever produced, as appetizer. They ate like hungry hounds, and an hour later, all packed and mounted, they said good-bye to the cowboy chêf and started on their way.

Bill rode well in advance, then Bob, then Paul. Bob's pony was a constant amusement, he was too nervous for the average, inexperienced rider, so he had not been ridden much. He had a distinct suspicion of rocks, overhanging trees, and things that darted across the road.

"He's a dancer. The equine Vernon Castle," Bob laughed, after a pas seul in a narrow and most inconvenient spot.

"Little too fresh. Don't you want to change with me?"

"Not I."

Sometimes the trail permitted them to ride side by side for a few minutes, and look off over the world spread below.

"It's incredible—such peace," he said, as they drew their ponies to a halt.

"That passeth understanding," she nodded.

"I suppose this sense of awe, of rest, is worship, is religion."

Barbara took a deep breath.

"Yes, it makes you feel purified."

The trail wound up and up. Every instant the view changed. There were difficulties to be met, where washouts had made the road almost impassable. It seemed only an hour or two later that they caught up with Bill, clearing a space to make a fire and cook the lunch.

"Not lunch! Why, what time is it?" cried Bob.

"One o'clock by my watch, ten minutes since we started by my mind, and six o'clock to-night by my appetite," said Paul.

Seated on the ground, eating a thick sandwich and devouring Heinz's pickles, Barbara sighed ecstatically.

"There never was such food," said she.

"And that for your sated New York appetite!" laughed Paul.

After lunch Bill decreed a rest for man and beast. He made a couch of pine needles for Bob, threw down her blanket on it, and betook himself off with the ponies. Bob stretched out on her bed, Trent sitting beside her to smoke.

"Better take a nap," he suggested.

"Oh, I'm not at all sleepy," said she, and was off before she finished the sentence.

Trent sat, smiled, puffed, and looked off to the end of the world and back again at the sleeping girl. He lay on his back and stared up at the sky, glad of life, of health, glad, yes—he admitted it—glad of Barbara.

When Bill came back Paul laid his hand on Bob's and brought her to a sitting position, rubbing her eyes and blinking from deep sleep.

"I must have dropped off for a minute," she apologized.