The day of the funeral had come and gone. It had been a very hard one for Shannon. She had determined that on this day, at least, she would not touch the little hypodermic syringe. She owed that much respect to the memory of her mother. And she had fought—God, how she had fought!—with screaming nerves that would not be quiet, with trembling muscles, and with a brain that held but a single thought—morphine, morphine, morphine!

She tried to shut the idea from her mind. She tried to concentrate her thoughts upon the real anguish of her heart. She tried to keep before her a vision of her mother; but her hideous, resistless vice crowded all else from her brain, and the result was that on the way back from the cemetery she collapsed into screaming, incoherent hysteria.

They carried her to her room—Custer Pennington carried her, his father and mother following. When the men had left, Mrs. Pennington and Eva undressed her and comforted her and put her to bed; but she still screamed and sobbed—frightful, racking sobs, without tears. She was trying to tell them to go away. How she hated them! If they would only go away and leave her! But she could not voice the words she sought to scream at them, and so they stayed and ministered to her as best they could. After a while she lost consciousness, and they thought that she was asleep and left her.

Perhaps she did sleep, for later, when she opened her eyes, she lay very quiet, and felt rested and almost normal. She knew, though, that she was not entirely awake—that when full wakefulness came the terror would return unless she quickly had recourse to the little needle.

In that brief moment of restfulness she thought quickly and clearly and very fully of what had just happened. She had never had such an experience before. Perhaps she had never fully realized the frightful hold the drug had upon her. She had known that she could not stop—or, at least, she had said that she knew; but whether she had any conception of the pitiful state to which enforced abstinence would reduce her is to be doubted. Now she knew, and she was terribly frightened.

“I must cut it down,” she said to herself. “I must have been hitting it up a little too strong. When I get home, I’ll let up gradually until I can manage with three or four shots a day.”

When she came down to dinner that night, they were all surprised to see her, for they had thought her still asleep. Particularly were they surprised to see no indications of her recent breakdown. How could they know that she had just taken enough morphine to have killed any one of them? She seemed normal and composed, and she tried to infuse a little gayety into her conversation, for she realized that her grief was not theirs. She knew that their kind hearts shared something of her sorrow, but it was selfish to impose her own sadness upon them.

She had been thinking very seriously, had Shannon Burke. The attack of hysteria had jarred her loose, temporarily at least, from the selfish rut that her habit and her hateful life with Crumb had worn for her. She recalled every emotion of the ordeal through which she had passed, even to the thoughts of hate that she had held for those two sweet women at the table with her. How could she have hated them? She hated herself for the thought.

She compared herself with them, and a dull flush mounted to her cheek. She was not fit to remain under the same roof with them, and here she was sitting at their table, a respected guest! What if they should learn of the thing she was? The thought terrified her; and yet she talked on, oftentimes gayly, joining with them in the laughter that was a part of every meal.

She really saw them, that night, as they were. It was the first time that her grief and her selfish vice had permitted her to study them. It was her first understanding glimpse of a family life that was as beautiful as her own life was ugly.

As she compared herself with the women, she compared Crumb with these two men. They might have vices—they were strong men, and few strong men are without vices, she knew—but she was sure they were the vices of strong men, which, by comparison with those of Wilson Crumb, would become virtues. What a pitiful creature Crumb seemed beside these two, with his insignificant mentality and his petty egotism!

Suddenly it came to her, almost as a shock, that she had to leave this beautiful place and go back to the sordid life that she shared with Crumb. Her spirit revolted, but she knew that it must be. She did not belong here—her vice must ever bar her from such men and women as these. The memory of them would haunt her always, making her punishment the more poignant to the day of her death.

That evening she and Colonel Pennington discussed her plans for the future. She had asked him about disposing of the orchard—how she should proceed, and what she might ask for it.

“I should advise you to hold it,” he said. “It is going to increase in value tremendously in the next few years. You can easily get some one to work it for you on shares. If you don’t want to live on it, Custer and I will be glad to keep an eye on it and see that it is properly cared for; but why don’t you stay here? You could really make a very excellent living from it. Besides, Miss Burke, here in the country you can really live. You city people don’t know what life is.”

“There!” said Eva. “Popsy has started. If he had his way, we’d all have to move to the city to escape the maddening crowd. He’d move the maddening crowd into the country!”

“It may be that Shannon doesn’t care for the country,” suggested Mrs. Pennington. “There are such foolish people,” she added, laughing.

“Oh, I would love the country!” exclaimed Shannon.

“Then why don’t you stay?” urged the colonel.

“I had never thought of it,” she said hesitatingly.

It was indeed a new idea. Of course it was an absolute impossibility, but it was a very pleasant thing to contemplate.

“Possibly Miss Burke has ties in the city that she would not care to break,” suggested Custer, noting her hesitation.

Ties in the city! Shackles of iron, rather, she thought bitterly; but, oh, it was such a nice thought! To live here, to see these people daily, perhaps be one of them, to be like them—ah, that would be heaven!

“Yes,” she said, “I have ties in the city. I could not remain here, I am afraid, much as I should like to. I—I think I had better sell.”

“Rubbish!” exclaimed the colonel. “You’ll not sell. You are going to stay here with us until you are thoroughly rested, and then you won’t want to sell.”

“I wish that I might,” she said; “but——”

“But nothing!” interrupted the colonel. “You are not well, and I shan’t permit you to leave until those cheeks are the color of Eva’s.”

He spoke to her as he might have spoken to one of his children. She had never known a father, and it was the first time that any man had talked to her in just that way. It brought the tears to her eyes—tears of happiness, for every woman wants to feel that she belongs to some man—a father, a brother, or a husband—who loves her well enough to order her about for her own good.

“I shall have to think it over,” she said. “It means so much to me to have you all want me to stay! Please don’t think that I don’t want to; but—but—there are so many things to consider, and I want to stay so very, very much!”

“All right,” said the colonel. “It’s decided—you stay. Now run off to bed, for you’re going to ride with us in the morning, and that means that you’ll have to be up at half past five.”

“But I can’t ride,” she said. “I don’t know how, and I have nothing to wear.”

“Eva’ll fit you out, and as for not knowing how to ride, you can’t learn any younger. Why, I’ve taught half the children in the foothills to ride a horse, and a lot of the grown-ups. What I can’t teach you Cus and Eva can. You’re going to start in to-morrow, my little girl, and learn how to live. Nobody who has simply survived the counterfeit life of the city knows anything about living. You wait—we’ll show you!”

She smiled up into his face.

“I suppose I shall have to mind you,” she said. “I imagine every one does.”

Seated in an easy chair in her bedroom, she stared at the opposite wall. The craving that she was seldom without was growing in intensity, for she had been without morphine since before dinner. She got up, unlocked her bag, and took out the little black case. She opened it, and counted the powders remaining. She had used half her supply—she could stay but three or four days longer at the outside; and the colonel wanted her to stay until her cheeks were like Eva’s!

She rose and looked in the mirror. How sallow she was! Something—she did not know what—had kept her from using rouge here. During the first days of her grief she had not even thought of it, and then, after that evening at dinner, she knew that she could not use it here. It was a make-believe, a sham, which didn’t harmonize with these people or the life they led—a clean, real life, in which any form of insincerity had no place. She knew that they were broad people, both cultured and traveled, and so she could not understand why it was that she felt that the harmless vanity of rouge might be distasteful to them. Indeed, she guessed that it would not. It was something fine in herself, long suppressed, seeking expression.

It was this same thing, perhaps, that had caused her to refuse a cigarette that Custer had offered her after dinner. The act indicated that they were accustomed to having women smoke there, as women nearly everywhere smoke to-day; but she had refused, and she was glad she had, for she noticed that neither Mrs. Pennington nor Eva smoked. Such women didn’t have to smoke to be attractive to men. She had smoked in her room several times, for that habit, too, had a strong hold on her; but she had worked assiduously to remove the telltale stains from her fingers.

“I wonder,” she mused, looking at the black case, “if I could get through the night without you! It would give me a few more hours here if I could—a few more hours of life before I go back to that!”

Until midnight she fought her battle—a losing battle—tossing and turning in her bed; but she did her best before she gave up in defeat—no, not quite defeat; let us call it compromise, for the dose she took was only half as much as she ordinarily allowed herself. The three-hour fight and the half dose meant a partial victory, for it gained for her, she estimated, an additional six hours.

At a quarter before six she was awakened by a knock on her door. It was already light, and she awoke with mingled surprise that she had slept so well and vague forebodings of the next hour or two, for she was unaccustomed to horses and a little afraid of them.

“Who is it?” she asked, as the knock was repeated.

“Eva. I’ve brought your riding things.”

Shannon rose and opened the door. She was going to take the things from the girl, but the latter bounced into the room, fresh and laughing.

“Come on!” she cried. “I’ll help you. Just pile your hair up anyhow—it doesn’t matter—this hat’ll cover it. I think these breeches will fit you—we are just about the same size; but I don’t know about the boots—they may be a little large. I didn’t bring any spurs—papa won’t let any one wear spurs until they ride fairly well. You’ll have to win your spurs, you see! It’s a beautiful morning—just spiffy! Run in and wash up a bit. I’ll arrange everything, and you’ll be in ’em in a jiffy.”

She seized Shannon around the waist and danced off toward the bathroom.

“Don’t be long,” she admonished, as she returned to the dressing room, from where she laid down a barrage of conversation before the bathroom.

Shannon washed quickly. She was excited at the prospect of the ride. That and the laughing, talking girl in the adjoining room gave her no time to think. Her mind was fully occupied and her nerves were stimulated. For the moment she forgot about morphine, and then it was too late, for Eva had her by the hand and she was being led, almost at a run, down the stairs, through the patio, and out over the edge of the hill down toward the stable.

At first the full-foliaged umbrella trees through which the walk wound concealed the stable and corrals at the foot of the hill, but presently they broke upon her view, and she saw the horses saddled and waiting, and the other members of the family. The colonel and Mrs. Pennington were already mounted. Custer and a stableman held two horses, while the fifth was tied to a ring in the stable wall. It was a pretty picture—the pawing horses, with arched necks, eager to be away; the happy, laughing people in their picturesque and unconventional riding clothes; the new day upon the nearer hills; the haze upon the farther mountains.

“Fine!” cried the colonel, as he saw her coming. “Really never thought you’d do it! I’ll wager this is the earliest you have been up in many a day. ‘Barbarous hour’—that’s what you’re saying. Why, when my cousin was on here from New York, he was really shocked—said it wasn’t decent. Come along—we’re late this morning. You’ll ride Baldy—Custer’ll help you up.”

She stepped to the mounting block as the young man led the dancing Baldy close beside it.

“Ever ridden much?” he asked.

“Never in my life.”

“Take the reins in your left hand—so. Like this—left-hand rein coming in under your little finger, the other between your first and second fingers, and the bight out between your first finger and thumb—there, that’s it. Face your horse, put your left hand on the horn, and your right hand on the cantle—this is the cantle back here. That’s the ticket. Now put your left foot in the stirrup and stand erect—no, don’t lean forward over the saddle—good! swing your right leg, knee bent, over the cantle, at the same time lifting your right hand. When you come down, ease yourself into the saddle by closing on the horse with your knees—that takes the jar off both of you. Ride with a light rein. If you want him to slow down or stop, pull him in—don’t jerk.”

He was holding Baldy close to the bit as he helped her and explained. He saw that her right foot found the stirrup, and that she had the reins properly gathered, and then he released the animal. Immediately Baldy began to curvet, raising both fore feet simultaneously, and, as they were coming down, raising his hind feet together, so that all four were off the ground at once.

Shannon was terrified. Why had they put her on a bucking horse? They knew she couldn’t ride. It was cruel!

But she sat there with tight-pressed lips and uttered no sound. She recalled every word that Custer had said to her, and she did not jerk, though some almost irresistible power urged her to. She just pulled, and as she pulled she glanced about to see if they were rushing to her rescue. Great was her surprise when she discovered that no one was paying much attention to her or to the mad actions of her terrifying mount.

Suddenly it dawned upon her that she had neither fallen off nor come near falling off. She had not even lost a stirrup. As a matter of fact, the motion was not even uncomfortable. It was enjoyable, and she was in about as much danger of being thrown as she would have been from a rocking chair as violently self-agitated. She laughed then, and in the instant all fear left her.

She saw Eva mount from the ground, and noted that the stableman was not even permitted to hold her restive horse, much less to assist her in any other way. Custer swung to the saddle with the ease of long habitude. The colonel reined to her side.

“We’ll let them go ahead,” he said, “and I’ll give you your first lesson. Then I’ll turn you over to Custer—he and Eva can put on the finishing touches.”

“He wants to see that you’re started right,” called the younger man, laughing.

“Popsy just wants to add another feather to his cap,” said Eva. “Some day he’ll ‘point with pride’ and say, ‘Look at her ride! I gave her her first lesson.’”

“Here come Mrs. Evans and Guy!”

As Mrs. Pennington spoke, they saw two horses rounding the foot of the hill at a brisk canter, their riders waving a cheery long-distance greeting.

That first morning ride with the Penningtons and their friends was an event in the life of Shannon Burke that assumed the proportions of adventure. The novelty, the thrill, the excitement, filled her every moment. The dancing horse beneath her seemed to impart to her a full measure of its buoyant life. The gay laughter of her companions, the easy fellowship of young and old, the generous sympathy that made her one of them, gave her but another glimpse of the possibilities for happiness that requires no artificial stimulus.

She loved the hills. She loved the little trail winding through the leafy tunnel of a cool barranco. She loved the thrill of the shelving hillside where the trail clung precariously in its ascent toward some low summit. She tingled with the new life and a new joy as they broke into a gallop along a grassy ridge.

Custer, in the lead, reined in, raising his hand in signal for them all to stop.

“Look, Miss Burke,” he said, pointing toward a near hillside. “There’s a coyote. Thought maybe you’d never seen one on his native heath.”

“Shoot it! Shoot it!” cried Eva. “You poor boob, why don’t you shoot it?”

“Baldy’s gun shy,” he explained.

“Oh!” said Eva. “Yes, of course—I forgot.”

“One of the things you do best,” returned Custer loftily.

“I was just going to say that you were not a boob at all, but now I won’t!”

Shannon watched the gray, wolfish animal turn and trot off dejectedly until it disappeared among the brush; but she was not thinking of the coyote. She was considering the thoughtfulness of a man who could remember to forego a fair shot at a wild animal because one of the horses in his party was gun shy, and was ridden by a woman unaccustomed to riding. She wondered if this was an index to young Pennington’s character—so different from the men she had known. It bespoke a general attitude toward women with which she was unfamiliar—a protective instinct that was chiefly noticeable in the average city man by its absence.

Interspersed with snatches of conversation and intervening silences were occasional admonitions directed at her by the colonel, instructing her to keep her feet parallel to the horse’s sides, not to lean forward, to keep her elbows down and her left forearm horizontal.

“I never knew there was so much to riding!” she exclaimed, laughingly. “I thought you just got on a horse and rode, and that was all there was to it.”

“That is all there is to it to most of the people you see riding rented horses around Los Angeles,” Colonel Pennington told her. “It is all there can ever be to the great majority of people anywhere. Horsemanship is inherent in some; by others it can never be acquired. It is an art.”

“Like dancing,” suggested Eva.

“And thinking,” said Custer. “Lots of people can go through the motions of riding, or dancing, or thinking, without ever achieving any one of them.”

“I can’t even go through the motions of riding,” said Shannon ruefully.

“All you need is practice,” said the colonel. “I can tell a born rider in half an hour, even if he’s never been on a horse before in his life. You’re one.”

“I’m afraid you’re making fun of me. The saddle keeps coming up and hitting me, and I never see any of you move from yours.”

Guy Evans was riding close to her.

“No, he’s not making fun of you,” he whispered, leaning closer to Shannon. “The colonel has paid you one of the greatest compliments in his power to bestow. He always judges people first by their morals and then by their horsemanship; but if they are good horsemen, he can make generous allowance for minor lapses in their morals.”

They both laughed.

“He’s a dear, isn’t he?” said the girl.

“He and Custer are the finest men I ever knew,” replied the boy eagerly.

That ride ended in a rushing gallop along a quarter mile of straight road leading to the stables, where they dismounted, flushed, breathless, and laughing. As they walked up the winding concrete walk toward the house, Shannon Burke was tired, lame, and happy. She had adventured into a new world and found it good.

“Come into my room and wash,” said Eva, as they entered the patio. “We’re late for breakfast now, and we all like to sit down together.”

For just an instant, and for the first time that morning, Shannon thought of the hypodermic needle in its black case upstairs. She hesitated, and then resolutely turned into Eva’s room.