dry buttes with rose, and twilight turned them mauve. In winter the whole land died and froze in rigor mortis, and men and cattle froze and died with it.
One day Kay, clearing her desk in her small orchid and blue boudoir-dressing room, came across that old photograph of her grandfather and took it out curiously and looked at it. She felt for a moment a quick wave of sympathy for that young and valiant figure which had had to grow old and die in the walnut bed, and with that some of her memories came back. She picked up the picture and went downstairs to her father's library. She knew he would be there; it was the sacred hour of whisky and soda before dressing for dinner.
"Don't you want this, father? I've just found it."
"What is it?"
He took it and looked at it. "I wondered where it had gone," he said, and locked it in his desk. He had a drawer there which was always locked. But she did not go, as he plainly expected her to do.
"Why don't we ever go out there, father?" she asked. "I'd like to see it. The ranch, I mean."
"Well, I wouldn't," he said coldly. "If it keeps on as it's doing it will bankrupt me."
"Are there still cowboys there?"
"Crowd of lazy young devils who call themselves cowboys."
She had a bright thought.
"Couldn't you turn it into a dairy ranch?" she asked. "There must be a lot of cows."
And then and there he gave one of his rare spontaneous laughs.
"My dear child," he said, "you can't milk range cattle. They're raised to sell for beef. At least," he added more sourly, "I believe that is the idea, but the packers seem to think we're running an eleemosynary institution."
After that life seized her again. The ranch drifted out of her mind. She fell in love, foolish sentimental affairs which gave her a thrill at the time, added interest to what was the real monotony of her existence; Rutherford or James brought up boxes of flowers with small neatly en-
