“That’s a fine thing for you to say,” retorted Aunt Jane.  “Like as not she’ll be fetching that hang-dog Joel Creech up here for you to support.”

“Auntie!” cried Lucy, her eyes blazing.

“Oh, child, you torment me—­worry me so,” said the disappointed woman.  “It’s all for your sake. . . .  Look at you, Lucy Bostil!  A girl of eighteen who comes of a family!  And you riding around and going around as you are now—­in a man’s clothes!”

“But, you dear old goose, I can’t ride in a woman’s skirt,” expostulated Lucy.  “Mind you, Auntie, I can ride!”

“Lucy, if I live here forever I’d never get reconciled to a Bostil woman in leather pants.  We Bostils were somebody once, back in Missouri.”

Bostil laughed.  “Yes, an’ if I hadn’t hit the trail west we’d be starvin’ yet.  Jane, you’re a sentimental old fool.  Let the girl alone an’ reconcile yourself to this wilderness.”

Aunt Jane’s eyes were wet with tears.  Lucy, seeing them, ran to her and hugged and kissed her.

“Auntie, I will promise—­from to-day—­to have some dignity.  I’ve been free as a boy in these rider clothes.  As I am now the men never seem to regard me as a girl.  Somehow that’s better.  I can’t explain, but I like it.  My dresses are what have caused all the trouble.  I know that.  But if I’m grown up—­if it’s so tremendous—­then I’ll wear a dress all the time, except just when I ride.  Will that do, Auntie?”

“Maybe you will grow up, after all,” replied Aunt Jane, evidently surprised and pleased.

Then Lucy with clinking spurs ran away to her room.

“Jane, what’s this nonsense about young Joel Creech?” asked Bostil, gruffly.

“I don’t know any more than is gossiped.  That I told you.  Have you ever asked Lucy about him?”

“I sure haven’t,” said Bostil, bluntly.

“Well, ask her.  If she tells you at all she’ll tell the truth.  Lucy’d never sleep at night if she lied.”

Aunt Jane returned to her housewifely tasks, leaving Bostil thoughtfully stroking the hound and watching the fire.  Presently Lucy returned—­a different Lucy—­one that did not rouse his rider’s pride, but thrilled his father’s heart.  She had been a slim, lithe, supple, disheveled boy, breathing the wild spirit of the open and the horse she rode.  She was now a girl in the graceful roundness of her slender form, with hair the gold of the sage at sunset, and eyes the blue of the deep haze of distance, and lips the sweet red of the upland rose.  And all about her seemed different.

“Lucy—­you look—­like—­like she used to be,” said Bostil, unsteadily.

“My mother!” murmured Lucy.

But these two, so keen, so strong, so alive, did not abide long with sad memories.

“Lucy, I want to ask you somethin’,” said Bostil, presently.  “What about this young Joel Creech?”

Lucy started as if suddenly recalled, then she laughed merrily.  “Dad, you old fox, did you see him ride out after me?”