went over to Alfred and put her hands on his shoulders.
“We must not be in debt.”
He stared at her as if her words had recalled something long forgotten. Then he smiled.
“How imperious you are! I'd forgotten just who my beautiful sister really is. Majesty, you're not going to ask me to take money from you?”
“I am.”
“Well, I'll not do it. I never did, even when I was in college, and then there wasn't much beyond me.”
“Listen, Alfred,” she went on, earnestly, “this is entirely different. I had only an allowance then. You had no way to know that since I last wrote you I had come into my inheritance from Aunt Grace. It was—well, that doesn't matter. Only, I haven't been able to spend half the income. It's mine. It's not father's money. You will make me very happy if you'll consent. Alfred, I'm so—so amazed at the change in you. I'm so happy. You must never take a backward step from now on. What is ten thousand dollars to me? Sometimes I spend that in a month. I throw money away. If you let me help you it will be doing me good as well as you. Please, Alfred.”
He kissed her, evidently surprised at her earnestness. And indeed Madeline was surprised herself. Once started, her speech had flowed.
“You always were the best of fellows, Majesty. And if you really care—if you really want to help me I'll be only too glad to accept. It will be fine. Florence will go wild. And that Greaser won't harass me any more. Majesty, pretty soon some titled fellow will be spending your money; I may as well take a little before he gets it all,” he finished, jokingly.
“What do you know about me?” she asked, lightly.
“More than you think. Even if we are lost out here in the woolly West we get news. Everybody knows about Anglesbury. And that Dago duke who chased you all over Europe, that Lord Castleton has the running now and seems about to win. How about it, Majesty?”
Madeline detected a hint that suggested scorn in his gay speech. And deep in his searching glance she saw a flame. She became thoughtful. She had forgotten Castleton, New York, society.
“Alfred,” she began, seriously, “I don't believe any titled gentleman will ever spend my money, as you elegantly express it.”
“I don't care for that. It's you!” he cried, passionately, and he grasped her with a violence that startled her. He was white; his eyes were now like fire. “You are so splendid—so wonderful. People called you the American Beauty, but you're more than that. You're the American Girl! Majesty, marry no man unless you love him, and love an American. Stay away from Europe long enough to learn to know the men—the real men of your own country.”
“Alfred, I'm afraid there are not always real men and real love for American girls in international marriages. But Helen knows this. It'll be her choice. She'll be miserable if she marries Anglesbury.”
“It'll serve her just right,” declared her brother. “Helen was always crazy for glitter, adulation, fame. I'll gamble she never saw more of Anglesbury than the gold and ribbons on his breast.”
“I am sorry. Anglesbury is a gentleman; but it is the money he wanted, I think. Alfred, tell me how you came to know about me, 'way out here? You may be assured I was astonished to find that Miss Kingsley knew me as Majesty Hammond.”
“I imagine it was a surprise,” he replied, with a laugh, “I told Florence about you—gave her a picture of you. And, of course, being a woman, she showed the picture and talked. She's in love with you. Then, my dear sister, we do get New York papers out here occasionally, and we can see and read. You may not be aware that you and your society friends are objects of intense interest in the U. S. in general, and the West in particular. The papers are full of you, and perhaps a lot of things you never did.”
“That Mr. Stewart knew, too. He said, 'You're not Majesty Hammond?'”
“Never mind his impudence!” exclaimed Alfred; and then again he laughed. “Gene is all right, only you've got to know him. I'll tell you what he did. He got hold of one of those newspaper pictures of you—the one in the Times; he took it away from here, and in spite of Florence he wouldn't fetch it back. It was a picture of you in riding-habit with your blue-ribbon horse, White Stockings—remember? It was taken at Newport. Well, Stewart tacked the picture up in his bunk-house and named his beautiful horse Majesty. All the cowboys knew it. They would see the picture and tease him unmercifully. But he didn't care. One day I happened to drop in on him and found him just recovering from a carouse. I saw the picture, too, and I said to him, 'Gene, if my sister knew you were a drunkard she'd not be proud of having her picture stuck up in your room.' Majesty, he did not touch a drop for a month, and when he did drink again he took the picture down, and he has never put it back.”
Madeline smiled at her brother's amusement, but she did not reply. She simply could not adjust herself to these queer free Western' ways. Her brother had eloquently pleaded for her to keep herself above a sordid and brilliant marriage, yet he not only allowed a cowboy to keep her picture in his room, but actually spoke of her and used her name in a temperance lecture. Madeline just escaped feeling disgust. She was saved from this, however, by nothing less than her brother's naive gladness that through subtle suggestion Stewart had been persuaded to be good for a month. Something made up of Stewart's effrontery to her; of Florence Kingsley meeting her, frankly as it were, as an equal; of the elder sister's slow, quiet, easy acceptance of this visitor who had been honored at the courts of royalty; of that faint hint of scorn in Alfred's voice, and his amused statement in regard to her picture and the name Majesty—something made up of all these stung Madeline Hammond's pride, alienated her for an instant, and then stimulated her intelligence, excited her interest, and made her resolve to learn a little about this incomprehensible West.
“Majesty, I must run down to the siding,” he said, consulting his watch. “We're loading a shipment of cattle. I'll be back by supper-time and bring Stillwell with me. You'll like him. Give me the check for your trunk.”
She went into the little bedroom and, taking up her bag, she got out a number of checks.
“Six! Six trunks!” he exclaimed. “Well, I'm very glad you intend to stay awhile. Say, Majesty, it will take me as long to realize who you really are as it'll take to break you of being a tenderfoot. I hope you packed a riding-suit. If not you'll have to wear trousers! You'll have to do that, anyway, when we go up in the mountains.”
“No!”
“You sure will, as Florence says.”
“We shall see about that. I don't know what's in the trunks. I never pack anything. My dear brother, what do I have maids for?”
“How did it come that you didn't travel with a maid?”
“I wanted to be alone. But don't you worry. I shall be able to look after myself. I dare say it will be good for me.”
She went to the gate with him.
“What a shaggy, dusty horse! He's wild, too. Do you let him stand that way without being haltered? I should think he would run off.”
“Tenderfoot! You'll be great fun, Majesty, especially for the cowboys.”
“Oh, will I?” she asked, constrainedly.
“Yes,
