times before, on their way from pasture, during the few days Trent had owned them. He had become familiar with their scents and their separate identities, after the uncanny fashion of the best sort of working collie.

As the job ended, and Trent started homeward, with Buff trotting chummily beside him, a slender black saddle-horse came single-footing around the bend of the road between the paddocks and the farmhouse. Astride the black, sat a figure as slender and highbred as the mount’s own.

The rider was a girl of perhaps twenty, clad in crash and booted. At sight of the man and the collie she waved her crop gaily at them, and put her horse to a lope by a shift of the snaffle-rein.

Trent’s bronzed face went red with surprised pleasure at the equestrian vision bearing down on him. Buff, after a single doubtful glance, recognised horse and rider, and set off at a run to welcome them.

“Why, I didn’t know you were at home yet, Ruth!” exclaimed Trent, reaching up to take the gauntleted little hand extended to greet him. “Your father said you’d be in the city another month. I saw him at the store last evening, and he said——”

“Yes,” she interrupted, “I know. He hadn’t got my telegram, then. Aunt Hester had to go out West to take care of her son—my cousin, Dick Clinton, you remember? He has a ranch in Idaho. She had a letter from him yesterday morning, saying he’d broken his leg. So she packed up, right away; and took the night train, West. And I came home.”

“Oh!” said Trent, in an effort at sympathy. “And you had to cut your visit in half? What a shame!”

“No,” she denied guiltily, “it wasn’t a shame. It was a blessing. I oughtn’t to say so, but it was. She did everything to give me a good time. And I enjoyed it, too, ever so much. But all the while I was homesick for these dear hills. And I’m so glad to get back to them! It’s queer,” she added, “how I’ve grown to love this Boone Lake region; when dad and I have lived here barely eighteen months.”

“Eighteen months and nine days,” gravely corrected Trent. “I remember. I had gone to town that evening to get the mail. And when I passed by the old Brander house I saw lights in it. At the post-office they told me a New York man and his daughter—‘some people named Hammerton’—had moved in, that day, and that they’d come here for Mr. Hammerton’s health. It wasn’t more than a week—just six days, to be exact—after that, when your father stopped here to ask me about the commission people I was dealing with in the city. He spent the morning, and he asked me to come and see him. It was the next evening I called. That was when I met you. So——”

“Do you keep a diary?” she asked, in an amusement that seemed tinged with embarrassment. “Or have you a genius for remembering dates?”

“And,” pursued Trent, “it was just sixteen days after that when we went horseback riding the first time. It—it may be a bit of silly superstition,” he went on reluctantly, “but I’ve always dated the start of this farm toward real success from the time you people moved to Boone Lake. Ever since then I’ve prospered. Another six months will find me in shape to install the last lot of up-to-date machinery and to take over that eighty-acre tract of Holden’s that I’ve got the option on. Then I can begin to call my soul my own and live like real people. And, the first day I can do that, I am going to put my whole fortune and my life, too, to the biggest test in the world. A test I hadn’t any right to put it to while I was staggering along on the edge of bankruptcy and with the future all so hazy. In six months I’ll be able to ask a question that will show me whether all my luck is Dead Sea fruit or—or the greatest thing that ever happened.”