She looked like some slender, young exquisite who had stepped from the stage of an old play as she stood smoothing the fingers of her gloves and smiling across at Lorry.  He said nothing, but stared at her.  She was disappointed.  She wanted him to tell her that he liked her new things, she had spent so much time and thought on them.  But there he stood, the pack-rope slack in his hand, staring stupidly.

She nodded, and waved her hand.

“It’s me,” she called.  “Good-morning!”

Lorry managed to stammer a greeting.  He felt as though she were some strange person that looked like Dorothy, but like a new Dorothy of such exquisite attitude and grace and so altogether charming that he could do nothing but wonder how the transformation had come about.  He had always thought her pretty.  But now she was more than that.  She was alluring; she was the girl he loved from the brim of her gray Stetson to the toe of her tiny boot.

“Would you catch my pony for me?”

Lorry flushed.  Of course she wanted Chinook.  He swung up on Gray Leg and spurred across the mesa.  His heart was pounding hard.  He rode with a dash and a swing as he rounded up the ponies.  As he caught up her horse he happened to think of his own faded shirt and overalls.  He was wearing the essentially proper clothing for his work.  For the first time he realized the potency of carefully chosen attire.  As he rode back with the pastured pony trailing behind him, he felt peculiarly ashamed of himself for feeling ashamed of his clothing.  Silently he saddled Chinook, accepted her thanks silently, and strode to his cabin.  When he reappeared he was wearing a new shirt, his blue silk bandanna, and his silver-studded chaps.  He would cache those chaps at his first camp out, and get them when he returned.

Bronson came to the doorway.

Dorothy put her finger to her lips.  “Lorry is stunned, I think.  Do I look as spiff as all that?”

“Like a slim young cavalier; very dashing and wonderful, Peter Pan.”

“Not a bit like Dorothy?”

“Well, the least bit; but more like Peter Pan.”

“I was getting tired of being just Dorothy.  That was all very well when I wasn’t able to ride and camp and do all sorts of adventures.

“And that isn’t all,” she continued.  “I weigh twelve pounds more than I did last summer.  Mr. Shoop weighed me on the store scales.  I wanted to weigh him.  He made an awful pun, but he wouldn’t budge.”

Bronson nodded.  “I wouldn’t ride farther than the Big Spring, Peter.  It’s getting hot now.”

“All right, daddy.  I wish that horrid old story was finished.  You never ride with me.”

“You’ll have some one to ride with you when Alice comes.”

“Yes; but Alice is only a girl.”

Bronson laughed, and she scolded him with her eyes.  Just then Lorry appeared.

Bronson stooped and kissed her.  “And don’t ride too far,” he cautioned.