“He must be dreadfully lonesome over there,” said Tavia, with a sigh, staring out of the window.

Dorothy was counting her handkerchiefs preparatory to storing away those she would not need on the return journey, in the tray of her trunk.

“Forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven——Tavia! I can’t find that forty-eighth handkerchief. I know I had four dozen when we started from North Birchlands. Where——”

wailed Tavia. “Maybe even you, my dear Doro, could mislay a handkerchief.”

“No. I most always never do. You know that, Tavia.”

Tavia’s interest in the missing handkerchief failed. “I wonder if he’s thinking of us,” she said. “I couldn’t have dropped it anywhere——”

“Why! if I had forty-seven handkerchiefs all at once—or even seven—I wouldn’t worry my head over a single, measly little one. Maybe one of the boys is keeping it for you, Doro.”

“Nonsense!”

“For a keepsake, you know. Lance borrowed one of mine and I’ll never see it again, I s’pose.”

“Why, Tavia! don’t let Aunt Winnie hear of it.”

“Oh, pooh!” said the irresponsible girl, shrugging her shoulders. “What’s a handkerchief?”

“But mine were all good ones,” complained Dorothy.

“Good or cheap, I wouldn’t trouble my head about them.”

“That’s why you have so few,” accused Dorothy.

“Oh, fudge!” quoth Tavia, turning to the window again. “It must be terrible wearisome to be alone in the wilderness.”

“Whatever are you talking about?” snapped Dorothy, at last awaking to the fact that Tavia’s mind was engaged in a mysterious line of thought.

“Why—poor Lance,” replied Tavia, in a most soulful tone of voice.

“Tavia Travers!” gasped Dorothy. “Won’t you ever let that poor fellow alone?”

“That’s exactly it,” said Tavia. “He is all, all alone, ’way up there in the woods, watching that river flow by. Isn’t it awful?”

“Do behave!” snapped Dorothy. “He’s well out of your way——”

“But he doesn’t think so, I am sure. Even his mother says I’m a ‘monstrous interesting gal.’”

For Mrs. Petterby had come over to the Hardin Ranch again by Mrs. White’s express invitation. The little old lady from Rand’s Falls, Massachusetts, was actually getting cured of her prejudices against the West.

“And Ophelia seems contented,” said she. “I got ter admit that there’s some things about Colorado I like. I never did eat sech melons. An’ the sky’s bluer than I ever see it before.

“My baby says I got ter stay out here and keep house for him—though he’s off in them hills now and his home might’s well be an Injun wigwam.”

Mrs. Petterby agreed, however, to be housekeeper and caretaker of the ranch-house. Lance was going to stay on with the Hardin outfit, and his mother was a spry old lady and was glad of the position Aunt Winnie offered her.

“For we shall be coming out here often,” declared Mrs. White. “I know my brother, Major Dale, will like it immensely, once he’s well enough to visit the ranch. And the young folk are quite crazy over it.” Ned was determined to go into the cattle business and stock raising—when he was out of college.

“What’s the use of boning at books, then?” demanded Nat. “‘All Gaul is divided into three parts’ isn’t going to help you raise longhorns for the market.”

“How do you know?” asked his brother, coolly. “And the cattle business will be a sideline.”

When old Mrs. Petterby took hold of affairs at the big house Aunt Winnie began to have a better time. “Help” was hard to get in that region and Mrs. White and the girls had done all but the kitchen work since coming to the ranch.

Now she had time to ride with Dorothy and Tavia as far as Desert City, and meet the men who were going to make possible the great transformation scene in that part of the desert that was to be irrigated with the water from Lost River.

Dorothy and Tavia enjoyed these jaunts immensely, too, but in between they had found time to ride up into the hills occasionally to see the tall young cowpuncher who guarded the river. Tavia would go, and Dorothy did not propose to let her go alone.

That was what Tavia was hinting at on the morning of the trunk packing incident. The following afternoon they were to ride into Dugonne, taking train next morning for the East. “Well, I’ll go,” said Dorothy, rather displeased it must be confessed. “But I wish we’d never seen Lance Petterby—that I do!”

“Why, Dorothy Doolittle Doodlebug! how you talk,” cried the innocent-eyed Tavia. “And he’s been such fun! Why, without Lance my trip out here to the ‘wild and woolly’ would have been without a particle of savor. And I’m going to send him a necktie for a Christmas present. Going to knit it myself.”

“If Nat heard you say that, he would observe, ‘Yes, you are—nit!’” chuckled Dorothy. “And Lance never wears a necktie. A red handkerchief around his neck, and tied behind, is his limit.”

A little later, in their chic riding habits, the girls ran down to the corrals. The Mexican girl appeared from the Ledger shack to attend them.

“Flores is such a nice little thing,” Tavia said to Dorothy as Flores caught and bridled the second pony. “Don’t you wish she was going back East with us?”

“Perhaps she wouldn’t be happy there,” replied Dorothy. “Mrs. Petterby is going to take her in hand and—so the old lady says—going to make a thorough New England housewife of her.”

“And I wager you put her up to it,” retorted Tavia. “Why is it, Doro, that you are forever thinking of other people, and doing things for them?”

“Nonsense!” said Dorothy, blushing. “Flores ought to have a better chance.”

“Oh, Mees!” cried the pretty, dark skinned girl, as she brought the second pony up to the gate. “I am so ver’ sorree dhat you go ’way. We shall be l-l-lonely here wit’out you. See! I soon dhe Ingleesh sp’ak nice—no?”

“It’s fine, Flores,” declared Tavia, laughing. “Who has taught you so much?”

The glowing eyes of the Mexican girl rested on Dorothy’s face. “She teach me, Mees. She is so good!”

For some reason Tavia grew suddenly serious. At least, she did not tell a joke or say a whimsical thing till they had ridden more than ten miles over the now well-beaten trail to Lost River.

“Doro Doodledum!” exclaimed the irrepressible, suddenly. “Do you know what you are?”

“Yes, Ma’am. American; white; single; age—not stated; no political preferences, although leaning toward the suffragettes; attend the Congregational church——”

“How smart! But you are something else,” declared Tavia, still quite serious of countenance.

“Sure! A graduate of Glenwood School. Oh, Tavia! how I wish Ned Ebony, and Cologne, and half a dozen of the other girls, were here. Wouldn’t we have had fun?”

“Yes. But that is another story——”

“It’s the truth!”

“Ha! you do not know your Kipling,” cried Tavia. “But never mind. The point is, Doro, that I have come to the conclusion that you are something more than human.”

Dorothy looked at her in amazement. “How you talk! What is the joke?”

“It is no joke. Seriously,” said Tavia. “You see, Doro, I have been thinking, and more deeply than you would believe.”

“Don’t do it,” laughed Dorothy. “It might grow upon you. Then you would no longer be Terrible Tavia, thoughtlessly threading her way through the thistles of this terrestrial life.”

“Goodness!” exclaimed her chum. “That must have hurt you.”

“Not much, but it was a strain,” confessed Dorothy.

“Now! listen to me,” commanded her chum. “I have been thinking it out. You are forever helping people, Doro, while I go along having a good time myself, and never thinking of a living soul but myself.”

“Why, Tavia! that is not so,” Dorothy said, gravely.

“Oh, yes, it is. Don’t contradict. Look at this trip. You began helping people almost as soon as we started. There was old Lady Petterby.”

“For pity’s sake! what did I do for her?” demanded Dorothy, in honest amazement.

“You put yourself out to make her comfortable.”

“I did not.”

“Then you picked up old John Dempsey,” went on Tavia, accusingly. “You have given that old boy a new lease of life, Doro.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said her friend. “Anybody would have done the same. And it was really Aunt Winnie who helped him.”

“She’d never have heard of John Dempsey if it hadn’t been for you,” said Tavia. “Then there is Flores. It never entered my head to try to teach her English. Why? Because all I can do—all I think of—is to have a good time. I never thought of helping Lance Petterby, even,” and she wickedly grinned again. “I’ve just been having fun with him.”

“And thank goodness! that’s got to stop now,” said Dorothy, with confidence.

“You are super-human, Doro,” pursued Tavia, shaking her head. “While I—well, I’m just an animal, I guess—a ‘featherless biped.’ Of course, I have tastes similar to yours and other humans; but I don’t use my intellect as a real human being ought—not even as a Boston bean should,” added Tavia, making one of her very worst puns.

“You display many traits common to the human family,” said Dorothy, her eyes twinkling.

“Don’t I?” responded Tavia, briskly. “That reminds me of the little girl to whom the teacher was explaining about the friendship certain animals have for man.

“‘Now, do animals ever possess sentiment or affection?’ she finally asked the kid.

“‘Yes, Ma’am,’ says the embryo.

“‘Tell me,’ says the teacher, ‘what animal has the greatest affection for man?’

“And the kid knew. ‘Woman!’ she exclaims, very promptly. You can laugh! I think I have that human trait very well developed. I am fond of the boys. They’re lots more fun than girls—present company excepted, of course, Doro. But I’m never thoughtful about others, and you are.”

“Serious talk from Miss Flyaway Travers,” said Dorothy, lightly, yet pleased that her chum should really display some gravity. “Don’t you show too much fondness for Lance Petterby to-day—now mind!”

Tavia was lively and irresponsible enough when they came to the cowpuncher’s camp. He had built a lean-to shelter and was comfortably fixed—so he said. Once a week he was relieved for a day by one of the Mexicans whom Hank could trust, and on that day Lance had always appeared at the ranch-house.

“Why, ladies, I shore am glad tuh see yuh,” was the big cowpuncher’s welcome.

“I know,” said Tavia, nodding. “If you suffered from ophthalmia you’d be cured.”

“Huh? I reckon so,” agreed Lance, “though I ain’t jest next to that ‘opthmy’ word.”

“She means if your eyes were inflamed the sight of us would cure them,” explained Dorothy, smilingly.

“Ain’t she the great little josher?” quoth Lance, admiringly. “I never see a gal like her.”

“And you won’t want to again,” said Tavia, pertly. “Now! confess.”

“Yuh got me there, Miss,” said Lance. “One of yuh at a time is jest enough. Two like yuh would drive a man plumb distracted.”

“You will not be plagued by my presence for long, sir,” said Tavia, making a little face at him. “This is a real good-bye visit. You’ll probably never see me again, Mr. Lance.”

“Hold on, now! Don’t say that,” cried the cowboy. “You folks will be comin’ out yere frequent. Miz White Says so.”

“Dorothy will,” replied Tavia. “But I may not. You see, I have to be specially invited to come.”

“I invite yuh right now,” said Lance, with emphasis. “Me and my old lady will be mighty glad to see yuh.”

“I can’t promise,” Tavia said.

“Let a feller hear from yuh,” urged Lance, devouring her piquant face with his bold eyes.

“Oh, yes! we’ll write Mrs. Petterby,” agreed Tavia.

“You will surely hear from us,” interposed Dorothy, before Lance could say any more. “And we’ll hear about you, too. Mr. Lance, you have been very kind to us all and we never shall forget you.”

She shook hands with the cowboy and then hastened Tavia into the saddle again. Lance evidently wished them to linger and tried to keep Tavia engaged in conversation.

Slily Dorothy touched the flank of Tavia’s pony with her heel. The nervous little beast sprang away—almost unseating its rider; but the movement broke up any “private confab” between her chum and the cowpuncher.

“Good-bye, Mr. Lance!” cried Dorothy, spurring after Tavia.

Tavia was again her trifling self. She chuckled as they rode away.

“Poor Lance! He’ll wake up some day. Hope it will be a real nice ‘cowgirl’ who gets him. Meanwhile we’ll just slip back East, Dorothy, leaving him nothing but fond recollections of us as he dreams over his campfire at night.”

Aunt Winnie refused to send for the big stagecoach in which to ride to town, so the young folk rode in the saddle to Dugonne the next afternoon, where the ponies were left at a stable to be called for the next time Hank Ledger had occasion to go to town. John Dempsey drove Mrs. White in a single-seated buckboard.

Old John Dempsey had made a place for himself at the ranch and was to be continued on the payroll. The veteran’s eyes overflowed when he bade Dorothy Dale good-bye at the hotel.

“You was my salvation, Miss Dorothy, that’s what you was,” he said. “I got a chance to live out o’ doors an’ work—and when I can’t work I hope the good Lord’ll take me away, Miss.”

“That will be many, many years hence, Mr. Dempsey,” cried Dorothy, smiling.

He drove away, but half an hour afterward the bellhop came to Mrs. White’s suite and said that an old man wanted to see Dorothy. It was John Dempsey. His wrinkled old face was twisted into a wry grin and he thrust a handful of banknotes into the hand of the surprised girl before he said a word.

“I done it,” he cackled. “Dunno as I’d oughter; but that snake in the grass insisted. I sold him the letter. When he finds out it’s only a lithograph copy of the original letter Old Abe wrote to that poor widder woman, he’ll be hoppin’ like a hen on a hot griddle, I reckon. A hundred dollars he give me,” added John Dempsey, “and ha’f of it belongs to you, Miss.”

“Not a penny shall I take,” declared Dorothy. “You must put it all in the bank against a rainy day, Mr. Dempsey.”

Dempsey then drove away, and the sight of his stooped shoulders as the ponies turned the corner was the last glimpse Dorothy Dale had of the Hardin Ranch folk for some time.

Ere she would see that great property again Dorothy was to have many new adventures, and some of them will be related in “Dorothy Dale’s Strange Discovery.”

Dugonne had faded from sight behind them when the girls went back to the observation platform. The Great West was flying past them.

“It is a wonderfully interesting country,” said Dorothy, thoughtfully. “And the people—most of them—are awfully nice.”

“Poor Lance!” sighed Tavia, in a most lugubrious tone; but she turned her face away that Dorothy might not see her dancing eyes.

THE END

The Motor Girls Series

By MARGARET PENROSE

Author of the highly successful “Dorothy Dale Series”

12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 60 cents, postpaid.

The Motor Girls
or A Mystery of the Road

When Cora Kimball got her touring car she did not imagine so many adventures were in store for her. A tale all wide awake girls will appreciate.

The Motor Girls on a Tour
or Keeping a Strange Promise

A great many things happen in this volume. A precious heirloom is missing, and how it was traced up is told with absorbing interest.

The Motor Girls at Lookout Beach
or In Quest of the Runaways

There was a great excitement when the Motor Girls decided to go to Lookout Beach for the summer.

The Motor Girls Through New England
or Held by the Gypsies

A strong story and one which will make this series more popular than ever. The girls go on a motoring trip through New England.

The Motor Girls on Cedar Lake
or The Hermit of Fern Island

How Cora and her chums went camping on the lake shore and how they took trips in their motor boat, are told in a way all girls will enjoy.

The Motor Girls on the Coast
or The Waif from the Sea

The scene is shifted to the sea coast where the girls pay a visit. They have their motor boat with them and go out for many good times.

The Motor Girls on Crystal Bay
or The Secret of the Red Oar

More jolly times, on the water and at a cute little bungalow on the shore of the bay. A tale that will interest all girls.

The Motor Girls on Waters Blue
or The Strange Cruise of the Tartar

Before the girls started on a long cruise down to the West Indies, they fell in with a foreign girl and she informed them that her father was being held a political prisoner on one of the islands. A story that is full of fun as well as mystery.

CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK