Upon her return from her third journey after water, she found the cow boy's eyes again open. This time he had raised himself on his elbow and was looking at her. He had come to, and it was not horrible at all. Her only feeling was one of alarm lest his sitting up should cause his wound to bleed again, and she hurried to him.

"You're feeling better, aren't you?" she faltered. "But you'd better lie down. You've got a pretty bad cut on your head."

The boy smiled in a puzzled way.

"I don't seem to remember much," he said, "except the header. My horse fell when I wa'n't expectin' it, and I went on a rock. 'Twas the only one on the prairie, I guess, but it got me for sure. What are you doin' here, miss? I don't seem to remember you."

Vivian explained as simply as possible. She and her friend had been resting when his horse brought him to the quaking-asps. One of them had gone for help, and the other had stayed. She was the other.

"You're not from these parts, I take it," said the boy, still puzzled. "You don't speak like us folks."

"No," Vivian told him, "I'm from the East. I came out here six weeks ago to visit my friend."

Her patient looked surprised and raised himself again on his elbow in spite of Vivian's restraining hand.

"So much of a tenderfoot as that?" he said, gazing at her. "They ain't usually such good sports as you are, miss. Yes, thank you, I'll have some more water. It's right good, I tell you!"

Then he fell asleep again, and left Vivian to the companionship of Siwash and the buckskin. Her patient comfortable, she fed them the remaining cookies, wondering as she did so where the awful sense of loneliness had gone. She should welcome Virginia—already it was time for her—but the knowledge that she must stay another hour would not present such terrors to her.

It was Siwash who first caught the sound of returning hoofs—Siwash and the relieved buckskin. They neighed and told Vivian, who ran from the thicket to see if they were right. Yes, there was Virginia, with Pedro still in the lead, and two men on horseback behind her. She had luckily met them a mile this side of Michner's, and hurried them back with her. The cow boy had again raised himself, as they rode up to him and dismounted. He was better, for he could look sheepish! This being thrown from one's horse was a foolish thing!

They would stay with him, the men said. They knew him well. He was called "Scrapes" at Michner's because he was always getting into trouble. This last was the worst yet. They would camp there that night, and in the morning he could ride home, they felt sure. They were grateful to the girls. Scrapes was a likeable chap, and no one wanted him hurt.

But Scrapes himself was the most grateful. He staggered to his feet as Vivian went up to tell him good-by and shook hands with her, and then with Virginia. But his eyes were for Vivian.

"You're the best tenderfoot I ever knew, miss," he said. "You was sure some good sport to take care o' me. Would you take my quirt? It's bran new, and I made it all myself. Get it off my horn, Jim. Yes, I want you to have it. Good-by!"

"Scrapes is right," said Virginia, as they left the thicket and started homeward. "I said a while ago that you were getting to be one, Vivian, but now I know you've got there—for sure!"



CHAPTER XIX

CARVER STANDISH III FITS IN

Carver Standish III hated the world, himself, and everybody else—at least, he thought he did. In fact, he had been so sure of it all day that no one had attempted any argument on the subject. Jack, unable to maneuver a fishing-trip and secretly glad of an escape, had ridden over to Mary with some much-needed mending; Donald had been glad to ride on the range on an errand for his father; Mr. Keith was in town; the whereabouts of Malcolm could easily be guessed.

Carver, in white trousers and a crimson Gordon sweater, was idly roaming about the ranch in search of any diversion which might present itself, and which did not require any too much exertion. For two weeks and more things had not been going well with him. His stay in Wyoming was not closing so happily as it had begun—all due, he admitted to himself, to a missed opportunity. For had he seized the chance when it was given him on the morning after that disastrous night on the mountain, and taken the laugh he had so richly deserved, by now the incident, like Vivian's affair with Mr. Crusoe, would be forgotten. Instead, he had accepted ill-gotten commendation, and received with it the well-disguised scorn of Virginia. This last was the worst of all.

He wandered down to the corral. If there were a horse around he might change his clothes and ride. Dave was there, repairing some harnesses. There were no horses down, he said, except old Ned. They were all on the range. Carver might ride Ned, or take him to round up the others. For a moment Carver thought of asking Dave to do the service for him, but the determined set of the old Scotchman's jaw warned him in time. Dave was averse to taking orders from a tenderfoot. It was too much like work, Carver concluded, to round up a decent horse, and to ride Ned would not alleviate his present mood. He would walk.

Old Dave, intent on his harnesses, did not see Carver jump the farther boundary of the corral. Had he done so, he would have shouted a warning not to stray too far on foot across the range. The cattle were being driven farther down toward the ranch, and they were often averse to solitary persons on foot.

Carver, all unperceived, climbed the foot-hills, his hands deep in his pockets, his eyes on the ground. It was all a bad mess, he thought, and how to get out of it, he didn't know. Of one thing he was certain: the West was not the place for him. The dreams in which he had lived only three weeks ago—dreams of opening a branch of his father's business in the West when he should have finished college—had vanished. He had now decided he was born to remain a New Englander. There were things about the West which he didn't like—blunt, unpolished, new things. Of course these ranchers didn't mind crudities. They could fraternize with ordinary cow-punchers. Even Donald could do that. But he had been reared differently. He struck his toe against a rock, which he kicked savagely out of his way. No, the Standishes were New Englanders, and there they would remain!

He reached the brow of the first foot-hills, crossed an open space, and climbed others to the open range above. When he again reached a level he stopped in surprise. Never had he seen so many cattle. There were literally hundreds of them. Where had they all come from? He stood still and stared at them, and they with one accord stopped browsing and stared at him. They were unaccustomed to persons strolling on foot across their preserves. For an instant Carver Standish felt a strange sense of fear. There was something portentous in the way a big red and white bull in the foreground was staring at him. Then he saw Donald on horseback off to the right, and waved his hand. But Donald, spying the white trousers and the red sweater in the same instant, did not stop to wave. Instead, he struck MacDuff with his spur, skirted the cattle nearest him, and rode madly down toward Carver and those ahead.

"He's crazy," he said to himself, "coming up here in that rig and afoot. Old Rex will never stand it for a moment."

He was right. Old Rex had not the slightest inention of standing it. He ate no more, but with lowered head gazed at this curiously clad intruder, who was hesitating, not knowing whether to advance or to turn back. Old Rex decided for him. He did the advancing. One shake of his heavy head, crowned with long, sharp horns, one cloud of dust as he pawed the ground, and one tremendous bellow warned Carver Standish III to do no tarrying in that locality.

A shout from Donald following Old Rex's roar determined Carver's direction. He fled toward MacDuff at a speed which would have won any twenty-five yard cup in New England! Old Rex followed. The other cattle, curiously enough and much to Donald's relief, let their champion fight it out alone.

Donald, every moment drawing nearer, freed his left foot from the stirrup. Carver must somehow be made to jump behind the saddle, and jump quick! There was not an instant to lose. Old Rex was gaining, and Carver was growing tired. It was too hot up there for a red sweater. With the bull a scant thirty feet away Donald pulled in MacDuff, and yelled to Carver to jump, which he did, aided by the stirrup, Donald's arm, and the last bit of ancestral nerve he possessed. When Old Rex, baffled and defeated, saw his foe being championed by one whom he full well knew, it took but a yell from Donald and a mighty crack of his quirt to send him back among the herd.

There seemed little enough to say as MacDuff bore his double load down over the hills to the lower range, where white trousers and red sweaters might be countenanced. But something had returned to Carver, something which for two weeks had been on a vacation. As they neared the home foot-hills, he slid from MacDuff.

"If you're not in a hurry, Don," he said, "let's rest here a minute. MacDuff is tired, I know, and there are some things I want to get straightened out before we go down home."

* * * * *

The next afternoon while Jack searched the ranch for his scattered possessions and tried in vain to stow them all away in his trunk, while three crestfallen girls packed at the Hunter ranch, Carver, fresh from an interview with Mr. Keith, sat down to write his father. The letter, received four days later in place of its author by the Standish family, brought surprise and consternation in its wake.

"I simply can't understand it," said Mrs. Carver Standish II, on the verge of hysterical tears. "I've never known him to do such a thing before. There's Ruth Sherman's house-party coming off, and the St. Clair wedding, and the tennis tournament, and our trip to the Adirondacks—and everything! Whatever shall I tell people who inquire? There's something wrong with him, Carver! I never did want him to go to that place, anyway. You'd better wire!"

"I can't see but that it's plain enough," said his father. "He simply prefers threshing on a Wyoming ranch to a house-party or a wedding or a tennis tournament or the Adirondacks. Let him alone. Maybe a little work won't hurt him."

"Hurt him!" cried a certain gray-haired old gentleman, slapping his knees. "Hurt him! It'll be the best thing that ever happened to him, in my opinion! Work, and being with that little girl out there!"

"And I did so want Mrs. Van Arsdale to see him!" continued his mother. "I'd planned all sorts of things for September. Read the letter again, Carver."

Mr. Carver Standish II read the letter. It was brief and to the point.

"'DEAR DAD:

"'I'm not coming home till school opens. I'm going to stay out here and help thresh. Mr. Keith is short on hands, and he says I'll do. I wanted to help for nothing, they've all been so good to me—but he says I mustn't. You needn't send me any money, because I'm going to be earning two dollars a day, and maybe three if I'm any good. Please don't let Mother object. It won't do any good anyhow, because I've already signed a contract to stay. Mr. Keith didn't want to draw it up, but I insisted. He does it with the other men, and I'm no better than the rest.

"'I've got a great scheme about bringing the business West when I'm through college. It sure is some country out here! Love to Grandfather.

"'CARVER.'"

That Carver Standish III preferred threshing on a Wyoming ranch to a house-party was the subject of conversation at every social affair for a week and more. Poor Mrs. Carver Standish II found explanations most difficult.

"Carver's so in love with the country and riding and all that he just won't come back," she said.

But Carver's grandfather, the old Colonel, found no such difficulty.

"My grandson," he said, his fine head thrown back, and his blue eyes glowing with pride, "my grandson is discovering the dignity of labor on a Wyoming ranch!"



CHAPTER XX

COMRADES

Wyoming, to be appreciated, should be explored on horseback and not viewed from the observation platform of a limited train. Barren stretches of sagebrush and cactus, and grim, ugly buttes guard too well the secret that golden wheat-fields lie beyond them; the rugged, far-away mountains never tell that their canyon-cut sides are clothed with timber and carpeted with a thousand flowers; and tired, dusty travelers, quite unaware of these things, find themselves actually longing for Nebraska to break the monotony!

The half-dozen weary persons who on the afternoon of September 6th sat on the observation platform of the Puget Sound Limited, together with the scores who peered from its windows in vain search of something besides sagebrush, were no exception to the rule. To a man, they were all giving fervent thanks that Fate had cast their lots in California or New England or, at the worst, Iowa. The assurances of the brakeman, who was loquacious beyond his kind, that once past Elk Creek they would strike a better country brought some much-needed cheerfulness; and Elk Creek itself afforded such amusement and entertainment that they really began to have a better impression of Wyoming. Apparently, there were civilized persons even in so desolate an environment as this!

The sources of their entertainment, for they were several, stood on the little station platform at Elk Creek. The central figure was a tall, middle-aged man, whose hands were filled with trunk checks and tickets, and to whom three very excited girls were saying good-by all at the same time. Three boys, two in khaki and one in traveling clothes, were shaking hands heartily; a fresh-faced young woman with marigolds at her waist stood a little apart from the others and talked earnestly with a tall young man; and a hatless, brown-haired girl in a riding suit seemed to be everywhere at once.

"Oh, I can't bear to think it's all over!" the interested travelers heard her say, as she embraced the three girls in turn. "It's been absolutely the most perfect six weeks I've ever, ever known. Don't lose your quirt, Vivian! And don't leave Allan's knife around, Mary. It isn't fair to tempt even a porter. You'll write from every large place, won't you, Priscilla?"

In spite of an amused and impatient conductor, the last-named girl turned back for a last hug. Her hat was askew, her brown hair disheveled, and her brown eyes full of tears, which were coursing freely down her cheeks.

"Oh, Virginia," she cried, "you're the biggest peach I ever knew! Remember, you're going to think of me every night at seven o'clock. It'll be nine for me in Boston, but I'll not forget. And it's only three weeks before I see you again. That's a comfort!"

She hurried toward the waiting train, at the steps of which a boy in khaki stood ready to help her.

"Good-by, Carver," she cried, shaking hands for at least the fourth time. "I'm going to see your grandfather the very first thing and tell him what a good sport you are!"

A mad rush for the observation platform ensued—the three girls, the boy, and the young woman reaching it just in time to wave good-by to those left behind. The brown-eyed girl swept the faces of her fellow travelers at one glance, nodded to the interested brakeman with a surprised and pleased smile, and then, just as the train began to move, hurried to the railing.

"Oh, Virginia!" she cried to the girl in the riding-suit. "What do you think! I've got the very same brakeman! Doesn't that make the ending just perfect?"

* * * * *

Two hours later a boy and a girl on horseback forded Elk Creek, rode up the Valley, and to the summit of the highest foot-hill.

"I'm glad we rode up here," said Virginia. "I'm missing them already, and to be up here with you helps a lot! Do you remember a year ago, Don? 'Twas in this very spot that we planned and planned, and the day was just like this, too—all clear and golden. It just seems as though every year is lovelier than the last, and this one has been the very loveliest of all my life."

"I guess," said Donald thoughtfully, leaning forward in his saddle to pat MacDuff, "I guess it's been the best of my life, too, counting this summer and all. Last year at school was great, with college always ahead—sort of a dream almost true, you know. And then to have Jack and Carver here, and all the girls with you, finished everything up just right. But the best part of the year to me, Virginia," he finished hesitatingly, "was June when you came back, and I found you weren't a young lady after all. I was some glad, I tell you!"

Virginia's gray eyes looked at the mountains, swept the golden prairie stretches, and lingered for a long moment on the cottonwoods which bordered Elk Creek before they came back to Donald's blue ones.

"I'm glad, too," she said simply.

Pedro and MacDuff sniffed the September air and gloried in it. They were impatient for a wild run across the brow of the hills, and wondered why their riders chose to look so long at the mountains on such an afternoon as this. If they sat so silently much longer, there would be no time to make the mesa, to gallop across its wide surface, and at last, perhaps, to have supper among the sagebrush with Robert Bruce. They felt somewhat encouraged when Virginia began to speak.

"I've been trying to decide the very loveliest thing of all the year," she said. "I mean from September to June. I don't know whether 'twas the Vigilantes or Miss Wallace or Grandmother Webster, but I'm almost sure 'twas Grandmother Webster learning to love Father. The others were joys for me, but that was one for all of us. Of course we know the loveliest thing of this summer. Everything's been perfect, but Aunt Nan and Malcolm the most perfect of all. Yesterday, when Grandmother Webster's letter came, I just cried for joy, it was so lovely!

"I—I couldn't help comparing it with the one she wrote Mother about Father," she continued, a little break in her voice. "I found it—afterward—in Mother's things. She didn't understand at all then. I guess it takes some people a long time to understand things. But I'm going to try to forget that because Grandmother Webster knows now just how splendid Father is. Besides," she finished thoughtfully, "it's going to be very hard for Grandmother to give Aunt Nan up. I guess we can't even imagine how hard it's going to be."

"Of course we can't I think it's fine of her to take it the way she does. What relation will that make you and me?" he finished practically.

"Priscilla and I figured it all out. You're no relation at all—just my uncle's brother. Makes you sound about forty-five, doesn't it?"

"It doesn't sound exactly young. When do you suppose it will happen?"

"Aunt Nan doesn't know. Malcolm says Christmas, but she says no, she must have a year with Grandmother. So I think it will be in June—just after school is out. Webster is lovely then—all filled with daisies and buttercups and wild roses. And you'll come on, Don—of course you will. And Priscilla will be there, and Mary and Vivian and Carver and Jack and maybe Dorothy! I want you to see Dorothy. Oh, won't it be the happiest time? I'm getting excited already!"

"The horses want to go," said Donald. "I'll race you to the edge of the mesa. Come on!"

Five minutes later they looked at each other, red-cheeked and radiant.

"In together, just as usual," cried Donald. "There's never much difference!"

"My hair makes me think of Priscilla," said Virginia, brushing back some loose locks and re-tying her ribbon. "Wasn't she funny this afternoon when she said good-by, her hat on one side and her hair all falling down, and her eyes full of tears? I can't help saying all over and over how lovely it's been. And now another year's beginning, and in two weeks more you and I will go away to school again. I'm wondering," she finished thoughtfully, "I'm wondering if next June, when we ride up here, you'll say that I'm not a young lady after all."

"You don't feel you're going to be—too grown-up, do you?" There was anxiety in Donald's tone.

"No, not in the way you mean," Virginia promised him. "Not ever like Imogene or Katrina Van Rensaelar. But I am growing up! I feel it coming! It's just as though I'd met my older self and shaken hands with her before she went away again, for, you see, she hasn't come to stay for keeps yet. I think she came the first time when Jim went away, and then again at Easter time when Miss King talked to us at Vespers, and then this summer when Aunt Nan told me about Malcolm. That time she stayed longest of all."

"I hope she won't be a lot different from you," said Donald. "I shouldn't want to have to get acquainted all over again."

"You won't," Virginia assured him. "Only she knows a lot more than I know, and she's told me a great many things already. That night on the mountain she came and stayed with me while Vivian and Carver were asleep. I learned so many things that night, Don. I'm just sure she taught them to me—she and the night and the stillness." Her voice softened. "Somehow, away up there on the mountain, life seemed such a big, wonderful thing—all full of dreams and opportunities and surprises and—and comrades, all going along the same trail. Don't you like to think of life as a trail—like the kind that leads to Lone Mountain, I mean—all full of dangers and surprises and beautiful things?"

"Yes," he said simply. His eyes as he watched her filled with pride in their comradeship—his and hers.

"And, oh, that makes me think!" she cried excitedly. "I've forgotten to tell you about the poem Miss Wallace sent me yesterday. You see, I'm collecting lovely ones, and she's such a help in sending them to me. I learned this one to say to you. Of course she didn't know, but it's just like we were the Christmas before I went away to school when you were home for the holidays. Don't you remember how we went for Christmas greens up Bear Canyon in that big snow-storm and didn't get home until long after dark, and how Jim and William were just starting to hunt for us? Listen! I know you'll like it. It's called 'Comrades.'

"'You need not say one word to me as up the hill we go (Night-time, white-time, all in the whispering snow),

You need not say one word to me, although the whispering trees Seem strange and old as pagan priests in swaying mysteries.

"'You need not think one thought of me as up the trail we go (Hill-trail, still-trail, all in the hiding snow), You need not think one thought of me, although a hare runs by, And off behind the tumbled cairn we hear a red fox cry.

"'Oh, good and rare it is to feel as through the night we go (Wild-wise, child-wise, all in the secret snow) That we are free of heart and foot as hare and fox are free, And yet that I am glad of you, and you are glad of me!'"

"Don't you like it, Don?" she finished eagerly. "I do. I like it because I think it shows the finest kind of friendship—the kind that makes you free to do just what seems right and best to you, and yet makes you glad of your friends. Miss Wallace calls it the friendship which doesn't demand, and it's her ideal, too. I'm sure she was thinking of that when she sent me the poem. And then I like it most of all because it makes me think of that Christmas, and the good time we had. Don't you like it?" she repeated.

In her eagerness she was all unconscious that she had given him no time to reply.

"Yes," he said. "I should say I do like it. I guess I'll copy it, if you don't mind. And, Virginia," he added, hesitating, "you don't know what our comradeship means to me. You see, when a fellow goes away to college the way I'm going, it helps him to be—to be on the square in everything, if he has a comrade like—like you've always been."

But there was no hesitation—only gladness in Virginia's frank gray eyes as she looked at him.

"Oh, I'm so glad!" she cried, her face flooded with happiness. "That's the very kind of a comrade I want to be, Don! I like to feel just as it says in the poem:

"'That we are free of heart and foot as hare and fox are free, And yet that I am glad of you, and you are glad of me!'"

THE END



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Golden Slipper, The. By Anna Katharine Green. Golden Woman, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. Good References. By E. J. Rath. Gorgeous Girl, The. By Nalbro Bartley. Gray Angels, The. By Nalbro Bartley. Great Impersonation, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Greater Love Hath No Man. By Frank L. Packard. Green Eyes of Bast, The. By Sax Rohmer. Greyfriars Bobby. By Eleanor Atkinson. Gun Brand, The. By James B. Hendryx. Hand of Fu-Manchu, The. By Sax Rohmer. Happy House. By Baroness Von Hutten. Harbor Road, The. By Sara Ware Bassett. Havoc. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Heart of the Desert, The. By Honore Willsie. Heart of the Hills, The. By John Fox, Jr. Heart of the Sunset. By Rex Beach. Heart of Thunder Mountain, The. By Edfrid A. Bingham. Heart of Unaga, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. Hidden Children, The. By Robert W. Chambers. Hidden Trails. By William Patterson White. Highflyers, The. By Clarence B. Kelland. Hillman, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Hills of Refuge, The. By Will N. Harben. His Last Bow. By A. Conan Doyle. His Official Fiancee. By Berta Ruck. Honor of the Big Snows. By James Oliver Curwood. Hopalong Cassidy. By Clarence E. Mulford. Hound from the North, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. House of the Whispering Pines, The. By Anna Katharine Green. Hugh Wynne, Free Quaker. By S. Weir Mitchell, M.D. Humoresque. By Fannie Hurst. I Conquered. By Harold Titus. Illustrious Prince, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. In Another Girl's Shoes. By Berta Ruck. Indifference of Juliet, The. By Grace S. Richmond. Inez. (Ill. Ed.) By Augusta J. Evans.



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Infelice. By Augusta Evans Wilson. Initials Only. By Anna Katharine Green. Inner Law, The. By Will N. Harben. Innocent. By Marie Corelli. In Red and Gold. By Samuel Merwin. Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu, The. By Sax Rohmer. In the Brooding Wild. By Ridgwell Cullum. Intriguers, The. By William Le Queux. Iron Furrow, The. By George C. Shedd. Iron Trail, The. By Rex Beach. Iron Woman, The. By Margaret Deland. Ishmael. (Ill.) By Mrs. Southworth. Island of Surprise. By Cyrus Townsend Brady. I Spy. By Natalie Sumner Lincoln. It Pays to Smile. By Nina Wilcox Putnam. I've Married Marjorie. By Margaret Widdemer.

Jean of the Lazy A. By B. M. Bower. Jeanne of the Marshes. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Jennie Gerhardt. By Theodore Dreiser. Johnny Nelson. By Clarence E. Mulford. Judgment House, The. By Gilbert Parker.

Keeper of the Door, The. By Ethel M. Dell. Keith of the Border. By Randall Parrish. Kent Knowles: Quahaug. By Joseph C. Lincoln. Kingdom of the Blind, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. King Spruce. By Holman Day. Knave of Diamonds, The. By Ethel M. Dell.

La Chance Mine Mystery, The. By S. Carleton. Lady Doc, The. By Caroline Lockhart. Land-Girl's Love Story, A. By Berta Ruck. Land of Strong Men, The. By A. M. Chisholm. Last Straw, The. By Harold Titus. Last Trail, The. By Zane Grey. Laughing Bill Hyde. By Rex Beach. Laughing Girl, The. By Robert W. Chambers. Law Breakers, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. Law of the Gun, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.



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League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. By Baroness Orczy. Lifted Veil, The. By Basil King. Lighted Way, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Lin McLean. By Owen Wister. Little Moment of Happiness, The. By Clarence Budington Kelland. Lion's Mouse, The. By C. N. & A. M. Williamson. Lonesome Land. By B. M. Bower. Lone Wolf, The. By Louis Joseph Vance. Lonely Stronghold, The. By Mrs. Baillie Reynolds. Long Live the King. By Mary Roberts Rinehart. Lost Ambassador. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Lost Prince, The. By Frances Hodgson Burnett. Lydia of the Pines. By Honore Willsie. Lynch Lawyers. By William Patterson White.

Macaria. (Ill. Ed.) By Augusta J. Evans. Maid of the Forest, The. By Randall Parrish. Maid of Mirabelle, The. By Eliot H. Robinson. Maid of the Whispering Hills, The. By Vingie E. Roe. Major, The. By Ralph Connor. Maker of History, A. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Malefactor, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Man from Bar 20, The. By Clarence E. Mulford. Man from Bitter Roots, The. By Caroline Lockhart. Man from Tall Timber, The. By Thomas K. Holmes. Man in the Jury Box, The. By Robert Orr Chipperfield. Man-Killers, The. By Dane Coolidge. Man Proposes. By Eliot H. Robinson, author of "Smiles." Man Trail, The. By Henry Oyen. Man Who Couldn't Sleep, The. By Arthur Stringer. Marqueray's Duel. By Anthony Pryde. Mary 'Gusta. By Joseph C. Lincoln. Mary Wollaston. By Henry Kitchell Webster. Mason of Bar X Ranch. By E. Bennett. Master Christian, The. By Marie Corelli. Master Mummer, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. By A. Conan Doyle. Men Who Wrought, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. Midnight of the Ranges. By George Gilbert.



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Mischief Maker, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Missioner, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Miss Million's Maid. By Berta Ruck. Money Master, The. By Gilbert Parker. Money Moon, The. By Jeffery Farnol. Moonlit Way, The. By Robert W. Chambers. More Tish. By Mary Roberts Rinehart. Mountain Girl, The. By Payne Erskine. Mr. Bingle. By George Barr McCutcheon. Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Mr. Pratt. By Joseph C. Lincoln. Mr. Pratt's Patients. By Joseph C. Lincoln. Mr. Wu. By Louise Jordan Miln. Mrs. Balfame. By Gertrude Atherton. Mrs. Red Pepper. By Grace S. Richmond. My Lady of the North. By Randall Parrish. My Lady of the South. By Randall Parrish. Mystery of the Hasty Arrow, The. By Anna K. Green. Mystery of the Silver Dagger, The. By Randall Parrish. Mystery of the 13th Floor, The. By Lee Thayer.

Nameless Man, The. By Natalie Sumner Lincoln. Ne'er-Do-Well, The. By Rex Beach. Net, The. By Rex Beach. New Clarion. By Will N. Harben. Night Horseman, The. By Max Brand. Night Operator, The. By Frank L. Packard. Night Riders, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. North of the Law. By Samuel Alexander White.

One Way Trail, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. Outlaw, The. By Jackson Gregory. Owner of the Lazy D. By William Patterson White.

Painted Meadows. By Sophie Kerr. Palmetto. By Stella G. S. Perry. Paradise Bend. By William Patterson White. Pardners. By Rex Beach. Parrot & Co. By Harold MacGrath. Partners of the Night. By Leroy Scott.



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Partners of the Tide. By Joseph C. Lincoln. Passionate Pilgrim, The. By Samuel Merwin. Patricia Brent, Spinster. Anonymous. Patrol of the Sun Dance Trail, The. By Ralph Connor. Paul Anthony, Christian. By Hiram W. Hayes. Pawns Count, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Peacemakers, The. By Hiram W. Hayes. Peddler, The. By Henry C. Rowland. People's Man, A. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Peter Ruff and the Double Four. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Poor Man's Rock. By Bertrand Sinclair. Poor Wise Man, A. By Mary Roberts Rinehart. Portygee, The. By Joseph C. Lincoln. Possession. By Olive Wadsley. Postmaster, The. By Joseph C. Lincoln. Prairie Flowers. By James B. Hendryx. Prairie Mother, The. By Arthur Stringer. Prairie Wife, The. By Arthur Stringer. Pretender, The. By Robert W. Service. Price of the Prairie, The. By Margaret Hill McCarter. Prince of Sinners, A. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Promise, The. By J. B. Hendryx.

Quest of the Sacred Slipper, The. By Sax Rohmer.

Rainbow's End, The. By Rex Beach. Rainbow Valley. By L. M. Montgomery. Ranch at the Wolverine, The. By B. M. Bower. Ranching for Sylvia. By Harold Bindloss. Ransom. By Arthur Somers Roche. Real Life. By Henry Kitchell Webster. Reclaimers, The. By Margaret Hill McCarter. Re-Creation of Brian Kent, The. By Harold Bell Wright. Red and Black. By Grace S. Richmond. Red Mist, The. By Randall Parrish. Red Pepper Burns. By Grace S. Richmond. Red Pepper's Patients. By Grace S. Richmond. Red Seal, The. By Natalie Sumner Lincoln. Rejuvenation of Aunt Mary, The. By Anne Warner. Restless Sex, The. By Robert W. Chambers.



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Return of Dr. Fu-Manchu, The. By Sax Rohmer. Return of Tarzan, The. By Edgar Rice Burroughs. Riddle of the Frozen Flame, The. By M. E. and T. W. Hanshew. Riddle of Night, The. By Thomas W. Hanshew. Riddle of the Purple Emperor, The. By T. W. and M. E. Hanshew. Rider of the King Log, The. By Holman Day. Rim of the Desert, The. By Ada Woodruff Anderson. Rise of Roscoe Paine, The. By Joseph C. Lincoln. Rising Tide, The. By Margaret Deland. Rocks of Valpre, The. By Ethel M. Dell. Room Number 3. By Anna Katharine Green. Rose in the Ring, The. By George Barr McCutcheon. Round the Corner in Gay Street. By Grace S. Richmond.

St. Elmo. (Ill. Ed.) By Augusta J. Evans. Second Choice. By Will N. Harben. Second Latchkey, The. By C. N. & A. M. Williamson. Second Violin, The. By Grace S. Richmond. Secret of the Reef, The. Harold Bindloss. Secret of Sarek, The. By Maurice Leblanc. See-Saw, The. By Sophie Kerr. Self-Raised. (Ill.) By Mrs. Southworth. Shavings. By Joseph C. Lincoln. Sheik, The. By E. M. Hull. Shepherd of the Hills, The. By Harold Bell Wright. Sheriff of Dyke Hole, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. Sheriff of Silver Bow, The. By Berton Braley. Sherry. By George Barr McCutcheon. Side of the Angels, The. By Basil King. Sight Unseen and The Confession. By Mary Robert Rinehart. Silver Horde, The. By Rex Beach. Sin That Was His, The. By Frank L. Packard. Sixty-first Second, The. By Owen Johnson. Slayer of Souls, The. By Robert W. Chambers Son of His Father, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. Son of Tarzan, The. By Edgar Rice Burroughs. Speckled Bird, A. By Augusta Evans Wilson. Spirit of the Border, The. (New Edition.) By Zane Grey.



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Spoilers, The. By Rex Beach. Steele of the Royal Mounted. By James Oliver Curwood. Still Jim. By Honore Willsie. Story of Foss River Ranch, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. Story of Marco, The. By Eleanor H. Porter. Strange Case of Cavendish, The. By Randall Parrish. Strawberry Acres. By Grace S. Richmond. Sudden Jim. By Clarence B. Kelland. Sweethearts Unmet. By Berta Ruck.

Tales of Secret Egypt. By Sax Rohmer. Tales of Sherlock Holmes. By A. Conan Doyle. Talitha Cumi. By Annie J. Holland. Taming of Zenas Henry, The. By Sara Ware Bassett. Tarzan of the Apes. By Edgar Rice Burroughs. Tarzan and the Jewels of Opar. By Edgar Rice Burroughs. Tempting of Tavernake, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Tess of the D'Urbervilles. By Thomas Hardy. Texan, The. By James B. Hendryx. Thankful's Inheritance. By Joseph C. Lincoln. That Affair Next Door. By Anna Katharine Green. That Printer of Udell's. By Harold Bell Wright. Their Yesterdays. By Harold Bell Wright. Thieves' Wit. By Hulbert Footner. Thirteenth Commandment, The. By Rupert Hughes. Three Eyes, The. By Maurice Leblanc. Three of Hearts, The. By Berta Ruck. Three Strings, The. By Natalie Sumner Lincoln. Tiger's Coat, The. By Elizabeth Dejeans. Tish. By Mary Roberts Rinehart. Tobias O' the Light. By James A. Cooper. Trail of the Axe, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. Trail to Yesterday, The. By Charles A. Seltzer. Trailin'. By Max Brand. Trap, The. By Maximilian Foster. Treasure of Heaven, The. By Marie Corelli. Triple Mystery, The. By Adele Luehrmann. Triumph, The. By Will N. Harben. Triumph of John Kars, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. T. Tembarom. By Frances Hodgson Burnett.



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Turn of the Tide. By Author of "Pollyanna." Turnstile of Night, The. By William Allison. Twenty-fourth of June, The. By Grace S. Richmond. Twins of Suffering Creek, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. Two-Gun Man, The. By Charles A. Seltzer.

Under Handicap. By Jackson Gregory. Under the Country Sky. By Grace S. Richmond. Underwood Mystery, The. By Charles J. Dutton. Uneasy Street. By Arthur Somers Roche. Unpardonable Sin, The. Major Rupert Hughes. Untamed, The. By Max Brand. Up from Slavery. By Booker T. Washington.

Valiants of Virginia, The. By Hallie Ermine Rives. Valley of Fear, The. By Sir A. Conan Doyle. Valley of the Sun, The. By William M. McCoy. Vanguards of the Plains. By Margaret Hill McCarter. Vanished Mesenger, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. Vashti. By Augusta Evans Wilson. Virtuous Wives. By Owen Johnson. Voice of the Pack, The. By Edson Marshall.

Waif-o'-the-Sea. By Cyrus Townsend Brady. Wall Between, The. By Sara Ware Bassett. Wall of Men, A. By Margaret H. McCarter. Watchers of the Plains, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. Way Home, The. By Basil King. Way of an Eagle, The. By E. M. Dell. Way of the Strong, The. By Ridgwell Cullum. Way of These Women, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim. We Can't Have Everything. By Major Rupert Hughes. Weavers, The. By Gilbert Parker. West Wind Drift. By George Barr McCutcheon. When a Man's a Man. By Harold Bell Wright. Where the Trail Divides. By Will Lillibridge. Where There's a Will. By Mary R. Rinehart. White Moll, The. By Frank L. Packard. Who Goes There? By Robert W. Chambers. Why Not. By Margaret Widdemer.



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Window at the White Cat, The. By Mary Roberts Rinehart. Winds of Chance, The. By Rex Beach. Wine of Life, The. By Arthur Stringer. Wings of Youth, The. By Elizabeth Jordan. Winning of Barbara Worth, The. By Harold Bell Wright. Winning the Wilderness. By Margaret Hill McCarter. Wire Devils, The. By Frank L. Packard. Wishing Ring Man, The. By Margaret Widdemer. With Juliet in England. By Grace S. Richmond. Woman From "Outside," The. By Hulbert Footner. Woman Gives, The. By Owen Johnson. Woman Haters, The. By Joseph C. Lincoln. Woman Thou Gavest Me, The. By Hall Caine. Woodcarver of 'Lympus, The. By Mary E. Waller. Wooing of Rosamond Fayre, The. By Berta Ruck. World for Sale, The. By Gilbert Parker. Wreckers, The. By Francis Lynde. Wyndham's Pal. By Harold Bindloss.

Years for Rachel, The. By Berta Ruck. Yellow Claw, The. By Sax Rohmer. You Never Know Your Luck. By Gilbert Parker. You're Only Young Once. By Margaret Widdemer. Youth Challenges. By Clarence Budington Kelland.

Zeppelin's Passenger. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.

THE END