After a long time, she found herself far out in a long stretch of gray prairie where no houses broke the bare line of the plains for many miles.  It had grown bitterly cold, too, and a sudden daub of gray splashed rapidly across the whole bright sky.  Connie drew a rug about her and laughed at the wind that cut her face.  It was glorious,—­but—­she glanced at the speedometer.  She had come a long way.  She would just run on to the next village and have some luncheon,—­mercy, it was three o’clock.  Well, as soon as she had something to eat, she would hurry home and perhaps if Prince showed himself properly penitent she would not go right straight to bed.

She pressed down on the accelerator and the car sped forward.  Presently she looked around, sniffing the air suspiciously.  The sky looked very threatening.  She stopped the car and got out.  The wind sweeping down from the mountains was a little too suggestive of snow flakes, and the broad stretch of the plains was brown, bare and forbidding.  She was not hungry anyhow.  She would go home without any luncheon.  So she turned the car and started back.

Here and there at frequent intervals intersecting roads crossed the one she was following.  She must keep to the main road, the heaviest track, she was sure of that.  But sometimes it was hard to recognize the heaviest track.  Once or twice, in the sudden darkening of the ground, she had to leap hurriedly out and examine the tracks closely.  Even then she could not always tell surely.

Then came the snow, stinging bits of glass leaping gaily on the shoulders of the wind that bore them.  Connie set her teeth hard.  A little flurry that was all, she was in no danger, whoever heard of a snow-storm the first week in October?

But—­ah, this was not the main track after all,—­no, it was dwindling away.  She must go back.  The road was soft here, with deep treacherous ruts lying under the surface.  She turned the car carefully, her eyes intent on the road before her, leaning over the wheel to watch.  Yes, this was right,—­she should have turned to the left.  How stupid of her.  Here was the track,—­she must go faster, it was getting dark.  But was this the track after all,—­it seemed to be fading out as the other had done?  She put on the gas and bumped heavily into a hidden rut.  Quickly she threw the clutch into low, and—­more gas—­ What was that?  The wheel did not grip, the engine would not pull,—­the matchless Harmer Six was helpless.  Again and again Connie tried to extricate herself, but it was useless.  She got out and took her bearings.  It was early evening, but darkness was coming fast.  The snow was drifting down from the mountains, and the roads were nearly obliterated.

Connie was stuck, Connie was lost, for once she was unequal to the emergency.  In spite of her imperturbability, her serene confidence in herself, and in circumstances, and in the final triumph of everything she wanted and believed, Connie sat down on the step and cried, bitterly, passionately, like any other young women lost in a snow-storm on the plains.  It did her good, though it was far beneath her dignity.  Presently she wiped her eyes.