He told her of the clean sweep of the wind around his little cottage among the pines on the side of the mountain, of the wild animals that sometimes prowled his way, of the shouting of the boys on the range in the dark night, the swaying of distant lanterns, the tinkle of sheep bells.  He told her of his father, of the things that he himself had once planned to be and do.  He told her of his friends:  of Lily, his pal, so-called because he used a safety razor every morning of his life; of Whisker, the finest dog in Colorado; of Ruby, the ruddy brown horse that would follow him miles through the mountains and always find the master at the end of the trail.  And he told her it was a lonely life.  And it was.  Prince Ingram had lived here fourteen years, with no more consciousness of being alone than the eagle perched solitary on the mountain crags, but quite suddenly he discovered that it was lonely, and somehow the discovery took the wonder from that free glad life, and made him long for the city’s bright lights, where there were others,—­not just cowboys, but regular men and women.

“Yes,” assented Connie rather abruptly, “I suppose it would be nice to be in a crowd of women, laughing and dancing and singing.  I suppose you do miss it.”

“That was not what I meant,” said Prince slowly.  “I don’t care for a crowd of them.  Not many.  One is enough.”  He was appalled at his own audacity, and despised himself for his cowardice, for why didn’t he look this white fine girl of the city in the eyes and say: 

“Yes, one,—­and you are it.”

CHAPTER XXI

ADVENTURING

If Connie truly was in pursuit of literary material, she was indefatigable in the quest.  But sometimes Carol doubted if it was altogether literary material she was after.  And David was very much concerned,—­what would dignified Father Starr, District Superintendent, say to his youngest daughter, Connie the literary, Connie the proud, Connie the high, the fine, the perfect, delving so assiduously into the mysteries of range life as typified in big, brown, rugged Prince Ingram?  To be sure, Prince had risen beyond the cowboy stage and was now a “stock man,” a power on the ranges, a man of money, of influence.  But David felt responsible.

Yet no one could be responsible for Connie.  Father Starr himself could not.  If she looked at one serenely and said, “I need to do this,” the rankest foolishness assumed the proportions of dire necessity.  So what could David, sick and weak, do in the face of the manifestly impossible?

Carol scolded her.  And Connie laughed.  David offered brotherly suggestions.  And Connie laughed again.  Julia said Prince was a darling big grandpa, and Connie kissed her.

The Frontier Days passed on to their uproarious conclusion.  Connie saw everything, heard everything and took copious notes.  She was going to start her book.  She had made the acquaintance of some of the cowgirls, and she studied them with a passionate eagerness that English literature in the abstract had never aroused in her gentle breast.