at, indifferently at first, because indifference had become habitual with her, and then with an interest that flourished up and insensibly grew as she rode on.  It grew until sight of a little ragged Mexican boy astride the most diminutive burro she had ever seen awakened her to the truth.  She became conscious of faint, unmistakable awakening of long-dead feelings—­ enthusiasm and delight.  When she realized that, she breathed deep of the cold, sharp air and experienced an inward joy.  And she divined then, though she did not know why, that henceforth there was to be something new in her life, something she had never felt before, something good for her soul in the homely, the commonplace, the natural, and the wild.

Meanwhile, as Madeline gazed about her and listened to her companions, the sun rose higher and grew warm and soared and grew hot; the horses held tirelessly to their steady trot, and mile after mile of rolling land slipped by.

From the top of a ridge Madeline saw down into a hollow where a few of the cowboys had stopped and were sitting round a fire, evidently busy at the noonday meal.  Their horses were feeding on the long, gray grass.

“Wal, smell of thet burnin’ greasewood makes my mouth water,” said Stillwell.  “I’m sure hungry.  We’ll noon hyar an’ let the hosses rest.  It’s a long pull to the ranch.”

He halted near the camp-fire, and, clambering down, began to unharness the team.  Florence leaped out and turned to help Madeline.

“Walk round a little,” she said.  “You must be cramped from sitting still so long.  I’ll get lunch ready.”

Madeline got down, glad to stretch her limbs, and began to stroll about.  She heard Stillwell throw the harness on the ground and slap his horses.  “Roll, you sons-of-guns!” he said.  Both horses bent their fore legs, heaved down on their sides, and tried to roll over.  One horse succeeded on the fourth try, and then heaved up with a satisfied snort and shook off the dust and gravel.  The other one failed to roll over, and gave it up, half rose to his feet, and then lay down on the other side.

“He’s sure going to feel the ground,” said Florence, smiling at Madeline.  “Miss Hammond, I suppose that prize horse of yours—­ White Stockings—­would spoil his coat if he were heah to roll in this greasewood and cactus.”

During lunch-time Madeline observed that she was an object of manifestly great interest to the three cowboys.  She returned the compliment, and was amused to see that a glance their way caused them painful embarrassment.  They were grown men—­one of whom had white hair—­yet they acted like boys caught in the act of stealing a forbidden look at a pretty girl.

“Cowboys are sure all flirts,” said Florence, as if stating an uninteresting fact.  But Madeline detected a merry twinkle in her clear eyes.  The cowboys heard, and the effect upon them was magical.  They fell to shamed confusion and to hurried useless tasks.  Madeline found it difficult to see where they had been bold, though evidently they were stricken with conscious guilt.  She recalled appraising looks of critical English eyes, impudent French stares, burning Spanish glances—­gantlets which any American girl had to run abroad.  Compared with foreign eyes the eyes of these cowboys were those of smiling, eager babies.