WHEN Mrs. Horton learned of the flight of Lord Avondale and of the death of her friend, Lucy Osborn, she was prostrated with grief and chagrin. The Englishman had sent her a hastily-scrawled note, briefly stating that he released her daughter from their engagement, and that his immediate departure was of the greatest importance.

A few mornings after this, Ethel asked her father if she might go with him on a trip that he had planned to the Cimarron River. “I just feel, daddy,” said she, “like taking a wild ride down the valley. It will do me good. Mamma is much improved, and I can go as well as not.” The cattle king looked at his daughter with delighted astonishment. “Go? Of course you may,” said he. “Why, Ethel, you are beginning to look like yourself again. It will seem like old times to have my little girl galloping over the range with me.”

Soon they mounted their horses, and were off for an all-day jaunt. Ethel rode her horse with queenly grace, and, as they dashed along, the color came back into her velvet cheeks, and her face beamed once more with girlish delight. Occasionally a long-eared jack-rabbit would be startled from his cover, and go skipping away like a deer, while Ethel would rein her horse after him in a wild, mad gallop, not with any expectation of overtaking the rabbit, but simply in a spirit of frolicsome excitement.

“Look at the sunflowers, daddy!” exclaimed Ethel. “What a wonderful wealth of them!”

“Yes,” replied her father, “the sunflower, you know, is the emblem of our State. It grows here in generous profusion, and is certainly as emblematic of plenty, for the cattlemen at least, as the seeds of the pomegranate.”

As they advanced toward the Cimarron River, the fields of sunflowers grew more plentiful, and finally they found themselves in a veritable wilderness of this Kansas emblem. Hundreds of acres stretched away, thickly peopled with these blazing sun-worshipers, ever turning and following with their queenly heads the course of the king of day. The darkened multitude of seeds, like black-eyed-susans, were encircled with bordering crowns of yellowest gold. The gentle wind stirred them into rythmic melody of motion. Every petal seemed to have caught the sunshine of heaven, and to hold within its gracefully nodding head a warmth of welcome to the visitor. The brown stalks were suggestive of brawny health and strength, while their fanlike leaves presented an unrivaled background to the golden grandeur of a waving sea of yellow. They resembled an army of officers with a burnished epaulet on every shoulder.

Then, too, there was a grace in their lithe and willowy undulations expressing a poetry unspoken, which charmed the visitors into admiration and reverence for this floral emblem. Mingled with the beauties of this yellow sheen and graceful harmony, there seemed to be a rare independence and stateliness. A music like the rippling of many waters was suggested by the gently clashing arms and leaves of this wilderness of sunflowers. It was also like an anthem of hope, with liberty as its deathless theme. The soulful music seemed to float lazily, and to rest like a benediction on the shadows beneath the leaves and golden coronets. There was an odor, too, like redolent, languorous ether distilled by the alchemy of Nature, wooing the visitors away from the cares, the trials, the heartaches and the regrets of the great, harsh world.

Here amid the stately sunflowers, bathed in their celestial beauty, with the radiance of the sun deftly gathered and crystallized into crowns of glory, like hammered gold, the vexations of life and its trials were forgotten. The onlookers were lifted into a realm of ecstasy where songs without words abound. O gorgeous sunflower, incomparable in thy beauty, unequaled in thy queenliness, surpassing in thy stateliness, glorious in thy radiance, emblematic of freedom, liberty, and deathless love of justice! Indeed thou art the worthy emblem of a land of freedom, of a commonwealth asserting and establishing “man’s humanity to man.” The rose has its beauty and transcendent fragrance, the hyacinth its charm of color, the columbine its mountain freshness, the lily its stateliness of poise, the dandelion its golden warmth, the daisy its modesty, the honeysuckle its vining tendrils of love; but amid all the realm of the flowery kingdom, thou alone hast robbed the sun of his prismatic rays, and heaven hath crowned thee with a golden sceptre of everlasting superiority and imperishable majesty.

“Oh, daddy,” exclaimed Ethel, “what a gorgeous forest of flowers. I feel lost in admiration. I am prouder than ever, daddy, indeed I am, of being an American girl and a daughter of Kansas, that has the beautiful sunflower for its emblem.”

It was past noon when they dismounted for dinner at one of Mr. Horton’s ranch-houses on the banks of the river. They did not start on their return trip until late in the afternoon. When the sun had disappeared behind the horizon, they were still several miles down the valley from Horton’s Grove. Their road lay along the banks of the Manaroya, whose cool, purling waters talked incessantly in their flight.

They had reined their horses into a walk.

Ethel had become communicative, and, as she talked and laughed, her father was delighted; indeed, the cattle king was in a humor to be pleased with whatever Ethel might do or say. He told himself that the day had been a treat such as he had not enjoyed since Ethel went away to school.

“Do you know, daddy,” said she, “that I am really glad Lord Avondale has gone.”

Mr. Horton had not expected that his daughter would refer to the painful subject. “Well, Ethel,” said he, “I am glad to see that you are not cut up about it, although I expected you would be from what your mother said.”

“Not a bit, daddy; I did not love him. Could you not see that I was unhappy? But it seemed that there was no escape. Don’t look so scared, daddy, or I won’t talk to you.” Her silvery laugh floated away on the soft night winds, and John Horton tried to disguise his surprise.

“I don’t say, Ethel,” said he, “that it would not have been a great trial to me for you to have gone so far away. I thought it was your wish, however, and you know I am ready at all times to sacrifice all the beeves on the range to add to your happiness.”

“I don’t care to speak disrespectfully of any one, daddy, but I will say that mamma was not to blame as much as others, in this foolish ambition to have me wedded to a title. I am not the sort of American girl to value old English laces and bric-`-brac, simply because they are old.”

“How about your brain-worker, Ethel, that you once told me of?” asked her father, timidly.

“That’s just it, daddy, I love him and can’t stop. I wrote him that you were on our side and told him to come, but he never answered my letter.” She sighed wearily, and her voice was plaintively low. “Well, I’ve had a great day,” she went on, “and here we are at home again.”

As the father and daughter dismounted and walked up the terraced lawn toward the house, he said, “My little girl, you have made me very happy by giving me your confidence, and, under all circumstances, remember that I am, as you put it, always and forever on your side.”

She pressed his hand affectionately. “All right, daddy,” said she, “I may put your promise to a severe test before long.”

As they mounted the steps that led to the wide veranda, they found Mrs. Horton comfortably seated in an easy chair, entertaining Hugh Stanton and another gentleman.

“Why, Mr. Stanton!” exclaimed Ethel, advancing and bidding him welcome, “you are such a stranger at the Grove that I hardly knew you in this uncertain light.”

Mr. Horton grasped Hugh’s hand warmly. “At some other time,” said he, “I shall insist on your giving an account of yourself, and explaining your long absence from our home.”

The girl stood face to face with Hugh’s friend.

“Ethel,” said he, with trembling voice, “can you not bid me welcome?”

“Oh, Jack!” cried she, advancing and placing both her hands in his, “a thousand welcomes. How surprised and glad I am to see you.”

The touch of her hands and the responsive message of love from her eyes were more than Dr. Jack Redfield could stand. He caught her quickly in his arms and tenderly kissed her willing lips. Mrs. Horton was engaged for the moment in a conversation with Hugh, and had not noticed Ethel’s greeting of Doctor Redfield. Not so, however, with her father.

“Oh, daddy,” said she, turning to him, “come and welcome Jack—I mean Doctor Redfield. He is my—my brain-worker; don’t you remember?”

“Welcome, thrice welcome, Doctor Redfield,” said Mr. Horton, cordially, as he extended his hand with all the warmth of greeting of a frontiersman.

That night when Hugh and Doctor Redfield were gone, Ethel excused herself and went to her room. She was humming an old love-song as she left the veranda, and seemed as lighthearted as some bird that had suddenly gained its freedom from a caged bondage.

“Ethel seems to be very contented and happy over her ride,” observed Mrs. Horton.

“I fancy, my dear, that there are other reasons,” replied her husband.

“Indeed, how is that?” asked his wife. John Horton replied by inquiring about Doctor Redfield.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Horton, “Doctor Redfield is a Chicagoan. He was my physician at Lake Geneva, and for awhile I feared that Ethel really cared for him.”

“And if she had?” observed Mr. Horton, interrogatively.

“Oh, Doctor Redfield was recommended very highly, professionally and otherwise,” replied his wife, “but you know,—well, Lucy and I had planned it differently.” She spoke in a slow and hesitating manner. Mr. Horton made no reply. Presently she said, “The death of Mrs. Osborn has been a great shock to me. I cannot bring myself to believe those shameful rumors about her and Lord Avondale; I really can’t.”

“My dear wife,” replied Mr. Horton, with more firmness than was usual with him, “it is proper to let the dead rest in peace. The atmosphere of strict propriety, as a matter of fact, bristled with interrogation points, though unknown to you. Mrs. Osborn’s death, however, calmed all into silent and mute forgiveness. It is best that it should be so. I do not regard it as strange that you should have been deceived by the machinations of a clever woman and of a consummate scoundrel. Avondale was a mercenary adventurer, and used his newly acquired title as a social ‘jimmy’ to break into the sanctity of our home. Let us be truly grateful for Ethel’s escape. That is one reason, I imagine, why she is so happy to-night.”

“And pray, do you think there are other reasons?” asked Mrs. Horton, apprehensively.

“There is one other reason,” replied her husband, “that I know of. Ethel is in love with Doctor Redfield. I have so much confidence in her judgment that I cannot question the wisdom of her choice. Her wishes and happiness, my dear, must be paramount to all else.”

Mrs. Horton had never before heard her husband speak so decisively about Ethel, and it began to dawn upon her that she had been cruelly deceived by Mrs. Osborn and Lenox Avondale. Even Ethel had not confided in her as a daughter should. It was too much for Mrs. Horton, and genuine tears filled her eyes. In her ambition for her daughter’s place in society, she felt she had been imposed upon, and it cut her deeply.

“Come, come, my dear,” said her husband, observing her tears, “I am sure Ethel does not blame you. She thinks, and, I believe, rightly, that you have been imposed upon by those far more designing than it was possible for you to imagine.”

A little later Mrs. Horton rapped at the door of her daughter’s room. Ethel’s face was flushed with the joy of her great love for Jack. He had given her the letters that had been intercepted by Mrs. Osborn, and also the letter purporting to have been written by her mother. She knew the handwriting, and imagined that her mother was ignorant of the intrigue that had kept Jack from her so long. As Mrs. Horton entered the room, Ethel saw traces of tears on her cheeks. The stately woman came close to her daughter and caressed and kissed her affectionately.

“Oh, Ethel, my child, why did n’t you tell me that you cared so much for Doctor Redfield?” Ethel was astonished. She looked up at her mother and saw the old-time tenderness divested of all ambition. “Oh, mamma,” she cried, resting her head gently upon her mother’s breast, “I have so often wanted to, but you would n’t let me. I can tell you to-night,” she sobbed, “for you are again the mother I knew before I went away to that horrid London school.”

Jack Redfield and Hugh were almost too happy for sleep, and talked far into the night, laying plans for Jack’s future. It was a bright moonlit night, and Jack Redfield declared, with a lover’s enthusiasm, that it was his reciprocated affection for Ethel that was turning the night into day,—a reflex glow of his deathless love lighting up the world.

The next morning when Hugh went to the bank he found Judge Lynn waiting for him. The latter pushed his hat well back on his head, as if in a sort of desperate and determined mood, and said: “Look ‘e ‘ere, Stanton, I want to borrow a thousand dollars. What’s banks for, anyway? I am ‘lowin’ if you’re doin’ a bankin’ business, you nachally want to loan money. Is n’t that so?”

Hugh replied that it was if the bank had money to loan and the borrower had proper security.

“Well,” said the judge, “I want to borrow a thousand dollars.”

“What security have you to offer?” asked Hugh, looking up from his bank ledger.

“My own name, sir; jist the individual name of Linus Lynn,” said the judge. “Speakin’ deep down an’ continuous-like, I am thinkin’ my own personal’ty is good enough for a thousand any day; bet yer life.”

Hugh looked up and saw that the judge was in earnest. After a moment he said, “Well, Judge, I am only the cashier of this banking-house, and I would rather refer important matters of this kind to the president. Now, if you had time to wait a little while, until Captain Osborn comes in, I will mention the matter to him. Understand, Judge, personally I would like very much to accommodate you. Can you wait?”

“Can I wait? Well, if you think I can’t, you’re strugglin’ in the coils of error. I should say I could. Hav’ n’t a suit on the docket that’s half as important as tendin’ to this here little bankin’ matter.” With this, the judge tucked his thumbs in the arm-holes of his vest, crossed one foot over the other, and leaned his back against the railings of the bank—and waited.

Captain Osborn came in, and Hugh, giving him a knowing look, stated Judge Lynn’s wishes.

“Well,” said Captain Osborn, “I have no objections, personally, that I know of, but we usually have security.”

“Now, look ‘e ‘ere, Captain,” said the judge, “I’m assoomin’ that a note with my name signed to it is jist ‘bout as good as a gover’ment bond, and don’t you furgit it. I’ve never borrowed a dollar in this ‘ere bank in my life, and there is no use talkin’, I have jist got to have the money or I’ll be plumb locoed.”

“Well, Judge,” said the captain, laughing softly to himself, “if you can wait until we talk with Mr. Edward Doole, our vice-president, we will see what can be done for you. He will be here in a few minutes, and I would rather defer to his judgment in passing upon loans, once in awhile.”

“All right, Captain,” said the judge, “I’m ‘lowin’ I can wait jist as well as not,—bet yer life I can.”

When the vice-president came in, Hugh, with a forewarning nod, explained to him Judge Lynn’s wants.

“Well,” said Mr. Doole, “you are the cashier and Captain Osborn is the president. I should think, if you do not wish to assume the responsibility of loaning the judge a thousand dollars on his individual name, that you had better refer it to the directors. I understand we are to have a directors’ meeting this forenoon.”

“Mr. Vice-President,” said the judge, as he shut one eye and looked intently at Mr. Doole, “I’m not projectin’ ‘round here for fan, an’ I’d like to ask, how do you feel person’ly ‘bout lettin’ me have the money? That’s the question I’m hankerin’ to have answered pow’rfal quick.”

“Personally? Oh, personally,” said Mr. Doole, hesitating a moment, and catching a mischievous twinkle in Captain Osborn’s eye, “I would like to let you have it, of course.”

“Very well,” said the judge, with a flourish of his greasy coat-sleeve, “I’ll jist wait till you-alls, as directors of this financial institootion, pass jedgment. Oh, I’ve got time to spread ‘round profase-like; I’m in no hurry; bet yer life, I ain’t.”

The directors had been in session but a short time when Hugh Stanton was delegated to report adversely to Judge Lynn’s application. Coming out of the directors’ room, Hugh said, “Say, Judge, the directors have looked over the bank’s business and have concluded that we are pretty well loaned up, and they do not care to increase our discounts, especially since the country has been burned up with the hot winds and collections are very hard to make. A little later—next week or next month, you know—things may be different. Well, good-day, Judge.”

“Not quite so fast, Stanton,” said Judge

Lynn, “I’m not stampedin’ yit; I am sort of a stayer, I am, an’ I’m assoomin’ I’ll not be satisfied till I speak jist a word an’ onboosomin’ myself like to the board of directors.”

“All right,” said Hugh, “step in,” and, with this, Judge Lynn was ushered into the directors’ room.

He struck an attitude of great dignity, thrusting one hand deep into his waistcoat, and, with the other resting upon his hip, he said, “Gentlemen, you-alls ‘ll pardon me, but I’m desirin’ to jist ask two or three questions.”

The directors nodded their heads, as much as to say, “Go on.”

“Captain Osborn,” said the judge, “did n’t I onderstand you to say that person’ly you’d like to ‘commodate me with the loan of a thousand dollars?”

“I believe I did,” replied the captain.

“Mr. Vice-President,” said the judge, turning to Mr. Doole, “did n’t I onderstand you to say that person’ly you’d no objections to loanin’ me the money?”

“I think I made such an observation,—yes!” replied Mr. Doole.

“Stanton,” continued the judge, with awful seriousness, “is n’t it a fact that you said you’d be glad to ‘commodate me if it was a personal matter of your own?”

“Yes, I think I said something like that, Judge,” replied Hugh.

“Well, gentlemen, person’ly each and every one of you would like to ‘commodate me, but collectively you’ve turned me down; is n’t that ‘bout it?”

The directors nodded their heads.

“But you see—” said the captain.

“Never mind, Captain,” interrupted the judge, “explainin’ don’t count. Here’s what I want to say to you-alls. I jist want to say that person’ly I think you’re a mighty nice lot o’ fellers, but collectively I’m assoomin’ you’re the darndest lot of skates I ever run up agin’.”

And, with this parting shot, the judge hastily left the room, muttering dire vengeance against bloated bondholders and coupon-clippers.