The evening meal was over. Enid
could not help think with what
scorn and contempt her father would
have regarded the menu, how his gorge
would have risen hers, too, for that
matter! had it been placed before
him on the old colonial mahogany of
the dining-room in Philadelphia. But
up there in the wilds she had eaten
the coarse homely fare with the zest
and relish of the most seasoned ranger
of the hills. Anxious to be of service,
she had burned her hands and smoked
her hair and scorched her face by
usurping the functions of the young
ranchman who had been brought along
as cook, and had actually fried the'
bacon herself! Imagine a goddess
with a frying pan! The black thick
coffee and the condensed milk, drunk
from the granite ware cup, had a more
delicious aroma and a more delight
ful taste than the finest Mocha and
Java in the daintiest porcelain of
France. Optimum condimentum. The
girl was frankly ravenously hungry,
the air, the altitude, the exertion, the
excitement made her able to eat any
thing and enjoy it.
She was gloriously beautiful, too;
even her brief experience in the west
had brought back the missing roses
to her cheek, and had banished tho
bistre circles from beneath her eyes.
Robert Maitland, lazily reclining
propped up against a boulder, his feet
to the fire, smoking an old pipe that
would have given his brother the hor
rors, looked with approving com-
She Actually Fried the Bacon Herself.
