ETHEL HORTON remained on the veranda watching Mrs. Osborn’s carriage as it disappeared in the gathering darkness. Her mother complained of fatigue and retired to her room. In reply to an inquiry from her father, Ethel said:

“Oh, yes, daddy, I like Mr. Stanton very much. He is quite interesting. I think your tastes and mine are much alike anyway, don’t you?”

“I think they are,” replied the cattle king, gallantly, “although it is a compliment to me, rather than to you, my little girl.”

Ethel laughed. “I say, daddy, you can make as fine speeches as any of them. I don’t think you are a bit stupid,” and the girl crossed over to her father and, nestling up close to him, was soon seated on his knee.

“This is something like old times,” said her father, as he clasped her closer to him. The moon was climbing over the eastern horizon, causing the waters of the little lake below to appear like a sheet of silver, while the rough edges of the rippling waves were as golden as the sunflowers that grew at the margin. It was an hour for girlish confidences, and one that Ethel determined to improve.

“Did you ever think,” inquired her father, teasingly, “that I was especially stupid?”

“No, daddy, I really never did; but, do you know, in England they boast a great deal, in quiet ways, about Englishmen, and all that sort of thing, and if you are an American they make you feel fidgety, as if having been born in America were a calamity.”

“That’s all nonsense,” replied her father, “don’t let your little head be turned by that sort of rubbish. To be an American, Ethel, in my mind, is a greater good fortune than to have been born a member of the most distinguished of England’s titled aristocracy. Understand me, daughter,” he continued, “the English are a great nation, but titles, of which some boast so much, had a beginning, and the conditions that surrounded their forefathers, and gave them an opportunity to do deeds of valor, are also here in America, developing the sterling qualities of manhood in their highest perfection.”

“Bravo!” cried Ethel. “That’s good, daddy; it makes my American blood just tingle. It’s better than a feast to hear you talk. I wish,” she continued, half petulantly, “I had never gone away to that London school.”

“No, Ethel,” replied her father, as he gently stroked her heavy, dark tresses, “no, you must not say that. It was your mother’s best judgement that you should go; and her ideas and tastes are of a very high order. I have been lonely during the four years of your absence. But life again seems complete now that you are at home.”

“Do you believe, daddy, that the best class of Americans care for titles, royalty, or anything of that sort?”

“My dear child, many wearers of English titles nowadays are but twaddling idlers—frayed remnants of a former illustrious ancestry. Whatever other views you may entertain, never believe that there is anything in a mere title. True manliness tells; and titled or not, a man is a man if he possess the sterling qualities of manhood. I would not disparage any man simply because he bore a title, neither would I give him a hair’s-breadth of preference. This, my little girl, is a plain statement of your old father’s views.”

Ethel nestled still closer to him, and with her head resting against his breast remained silent for awhile. He fancied she shivered a little, as if a sob were struggling for mastery. Presently she said, with a slight tremor, “I want to talk to you, daddy; I want to tell you something no one else knows. Do you think, daddy, if some great English lord should come over here for me that you would give me up to him, and let me be carried back to England and, perhaps, never see you again?”

“Why, Ethel, my darling child,” replied her father, hesitatingly, “I presume that if your heart were set upon it, I would give my consent. Your mother has intimated what we might expect, but it will be a great trial to me, Ethel.”

“Oh, mamma has intimated, has she?” mused Ethel, half to herself. “Listen, daddy—what if a brain-worker, a real American brain-worker, should want—want me—you know, and I should care for him—for this poor brain-worker—care more for him than for all the money in the Bank of England and the titles of all the nobility thrown in—what then, daddy? What then would you do? Would you be on my side, or against me? Tell me, daddy, dear, how would it be?”

The girl’s breath came short and quick, and the last part of her question was uttered in a rapid, jerky fashion. John Horton felt her tremble with suppressed excitement, and a light began to dawn upon him. He imagined, and rightly, that the girl was half-afraid of her mother.

“In such a case as that, Ethel, can you doubt the stand I would take?”

“No, but let me hear you say it, daddy; let me hear you say it—just what you would do.”

“On your side, my daughter, on your side forever, and we would fight to a finish on that line, if it took all the beeves and mavericks on the range.”

“Oh, daddy, daddy,” cried the girl, as she threw her other arm around his neck and gave way to a flood of tears, “I—I love you so—so much!”

Tears sprang to the cattle king’s eyes. Ethel’s soft sobs stole out along the veranda into the calm moonlight and away on the shadows into the woods where they lost themselves among the tall trees and on the wandering night winds. When she reached her own room that night, she wrote a letter to Jack Redfield, which read as follows:

“Dearest Jack:—Daddy is on our side. I am almost too happy to write. I know now what that feeling was,—love, Jack, love for you. Come and see me as soon as you can, and meet the grandest daddy in the whole world. Yes, I love you, love you, love you.

“All your own,

“Ethel.”

Mrs. Lyman Osborn called the next day, and in her neighborly kindness she consented to carry this letter, with others, from the Horton ranch to the post-office.

On the following day Mrs. J. Bruce-Horton called at the Osborn home.

“My dear Lucy,” said she, sinking into a chair in Mrs. Osborn’s exquisite boudoir, “I felt that I must see you. You attended to the letter properly, I suppose?”

“Trust me for that, my dear Mrs. Horton,” replied Mrs. Osborn, meaningly.

“How good of you,” murmured Mrs. Horton. “I really could not hope to get on at all in this matter if it were not for you.”

“You see my fears in regard to Doctor Redfield were well founded,” replied Mrs. Osborn.

“Indeed, I realize it,” said Mrs. Horton, emphatically, “and now we are confronted by this Mr. Stanton. My husband is really quite charmed with him. I don’t see why Doctor Avondale is so dilatory about coming. I certainly wish he would hasten.”

“My dear Mrs. Horton,” replied her friend, “trust me to guard off this Mr. Stanton. I have already assured him that Miss Ethel is spoken for, and I feel sure that he is too honorable to intrude himself when he regards Ethel as already engaged.”

“But she is not engaged yet—that is the trouble,” exclaimed Mrs. Horton, who at heart was really an estimable woman, although worldly and ambitious to gain a foothold in English aristocracy. Perhaps if she had never met Mrs. Osborn, Ethel might not have been sent to London. In her intercourse with English acquaintances, however, Mrs. Horton herself had become a devotee of the nobility.

“How delightfully innocent you are,” laughed Mrs. Osborn. “Why, my dear Mrs. Horton, of course she is not engaged, but that does not prevent our saying she is, when it will protect the girl.”

“Perhaps you are right,” replied Mrs. Horton, with a sigh, “but I do dislike duplicity, and really, Lucy, I feel worried about that letter. I fear we are hardly doing right, and yet it seems to me that one is forced to questionable measures in a case like this. Why Ethel can’t see the advantage to be derived from a marriage into such an old family as the Avondales is quite past my comprehension.”

“It takes time to cultivate the taste,” replied Mrs. Osborn. “Americans, as a rule, are naturally very stupid, and we American women are especially headstrong; but we, my dear Mrs. Horton, have mixed with the purple, and our eyes have been opened. I doubt not,” she continued, “that either Doctor Redfield or Mr. Stanton would be quite eligible, but then they would develop into men of affairs and, like your husband and mine, would be wedded to their money-making schemes rather than to their wives.”

“My husband,” replied Mrs. Horton, “is certainly a good man, very indulgent and devoted; but some way he does not appreciate the nobility. He even argues with me and sometimes almost convinces me, against my own knowledge, when the question is raised. Still, I am much attached to him; I really am, Lucy.”

“Oh, don’t be sentimental, Mrs. Horton,” laughed her companion. “Come, it’s very bad form for a wife to pretend to be in love with her husband. Don’t try to talk to him about the advantages of a suitable English alliance for Ethel. He does not understand, as you and I do, and it’s only a waste of words. Wait until Ethel is Lady Avondale, and you and I will quite desert the frontier for merry old England.”