At the breakfast-table, when there came opportunity, she looked up serenely and said, “Father, on second thought I will go the Bend, thank you!”

Anderson laid down his knife and fork and his eyes opened wide in surprise.  “Changed your mind!” he exclaimed.

“That’s a privilege I have, you know,” she replied, calmly.

Mrs. Anderson appeared more anxious than surprised.  “Daughter, don’t go.  That will be a fearful ride.”

“Hum!  Sure glad to have you, lass,” added Anderson, with his keen eyes on her.

“Let me go, too,” begged Rose.

Kathleen was solemnly gazing at Lenore, with the wise, penetrating eyes of extreme youth.

“Lenore, I’ll bet you’ve got a new beau up there,” she declared.

Lenore flushed scarlet.  She was less angry with her little sister than with the incomprehensible fact of a playful word bringing the blood stingingly to her neck and face.

“Kitty, you forget your manners,” she said, sharply.

“Kit is fresh.  She’s an awful child,” added Rose, with a superior air.

“I didn’t say a thing,” cried Kathleen, hotly.  “Lenore, if it isn’t true, why’d you blush so red?”

“Hush, you silly children!” ordered the mother, reprovingly.

Lenore was glad to finish that meal and to get outdoors.  She could smile now at that shrewd and terrible Kitty, but recollection of her father’s keen eyes was confusing.  Lenore felt there was really nothing to blush for; still, she could scarcely tell her father that upon awakening this morning she had found her mind made up—­that only by going to the Bend country could she determine the true state of her feelings.  She simply dared not accuse herself of being in unusually radiant spirits because she was going to undertake a long, hard ride into a barren, desert country.

The grave and thoughtful mood of last night had gone with her slumbers.  Often Lenore had found problems decided for her while she slept.  On this fresh, sweet summer morning, with the sun bright and warm, presaging a hot and glorious day, Lenore wanted to run with the winds, to wade through the alfalfa, to watch with strange and renewed pleasure the waves of shadow as they went over the wheat.  All her life she had known and loved the fields of waving gold.  But they had never been to her what they had become overnight.  Perhaps this was because it had been said that the issue of the great war, the salvation of the world, and its happiness, its hope, depended upon the millions of broad acres of golden grain.  Bread was the staff of life.  Lenore felt that she was changing and growing.  If anything should happen to her brother Jim she would be heiress to thousands of acres of wheat.  A pang shot through her heart.  She had to drive the cold thought away.  And she must learn—­must know the bigness of this question.  The women of the country would be called upon to help, to do their share.