“Marigold, it’s only that she’s so anxious to see you settled for life,” replied Lark sympathetically.
“That’s right! That’s just it,” replied the girl passionately. “Well, I’m not ready to be settled.”
“I should think you’d be eager—to marry Mr. Weston,” ventured Lark.
“Oh, I like Stan well enough. But we never get along. He doesn’t approve of me, Lark.”
“He seemed very nice. Of course, I don’t know any young men.”
“Your good fortune is about at an end,” retorted Marigold sarcastically. “There’ll be a flock of them after you presently, including El. Mother will be keen to marry you to one—not El, but the one who has the best prospects.”
“Me! Marry? Oh, how funny!” exclaimed Lark, half in mirth and half in consternation.
“It is funny, to see it our way. But look at it with their eyes. The old women are always matchmaking. You’re a female, young, healthy, pretty, and poor as a church mouse. They’d have you baking, sewing, scrubbing—and nursing kids for some man.”
“That last is fearful to think of,” agreed Lark, laughing in spite of her shocked sensibilities. “At least for you. But it seems sort of—out of the question for me.”
“Ha ha! You’ll see.”
A deep pleasant voice called up the stairs: “Mari, I’d like to see you a minute before I leave.”
“I’ll come down, Stan,” called Marigold in reply, as she rose, and smoothed her skirt and left the room.
Presently another voice made itself heard. “Sis, where’s Lark?”
“She’s in her room. And she’s tired. It’s been some day for her,” Lark heard Marigold reply.
“Hey, Lark,” Ellery called, still louder.
“Yes, what is it?” rejoined Lark, going to the door somewhat perturbed. But she might as well meet this situation.
“Come to the head of the stairs.”
Lark went, and, leaning over the rail, saw the young man looking up.
“Let’s go for a ride,” he proposed eagerly.
“Ride! I’ve had enough rides—for today.”
“Let’s go out and walk then.”
Lark wanted to walk outdoors, but there was no temptation in going with Ellery. She did not care to go with him, anywhere.
“Thanks, Mr. Wade, but I’m tired.”
“Say, don’t be so formal. Call me El. . . . Well, what do you know about that?”
Lark had gone back toward her room. She heard Marigold say: “I told you to leave Lark alone, El. She’s not for you.”
“What’s that talk?” spoke up Mrs. Wade curiously.
“Aw, Sis is ragging me for asking Lark to go riding.”
“Why should you do that, Marigold?” returned the mother.
“Mom, Lark doesn’t want to go out with El. She said so.”
“Oh, indeed. I should think she’d be glad—and proud to go,” returned Mrs. Wade stiffly.
“Well, you’re wrong, Mother darling.”
Lark, who had hesitated and then stopped in the hallway, hurried to her room and closed the door. She sat down, staring blankly at the purchases spread on her bed.
She thought of her conversation with Stanley, on the way home—how kind he was—and she became conscious of a vague, sweetly stirring, infinitely remote sensation of warmth—of pleasure. It was the way he looked at her when she was telling of breaking colts and riding along the Salmon River. It had to do with his nearness to her, when her unruly hair blew across his face. She found that she liked both those incidents, and felt uneasiness that this should be so.
After Lark’s first flush of consternation she straightened out the matter in her mind. She had known confusing things would happen to her in this new home. She would be lifted to the sky and then cast down. She would be puzzled, perplexed, upset, furious, unhappy. She would be jealous, envious, miserable, all because she was a girl and could not help it. She was bound to be pleased by Marigold’s family and friends, and also displeased. Mr. Stanley Weston, her cousin’s fiancé, had pleased her, that was all, and Lark decided gravely to try to forget it.
CHAPTER THREE
Next morning Lark waited to be called to breakfast. She was usually up with the bird for which her father had named her. It seemed a long while until the breakfast hour, but at last she heard a bell. She encountered Marigold in a bright blue gown, which enhanced her blonde beauty.
“Hello, Lark. I forgot to tell you about breakfast hour,” she said. “It’s any time. Dad and El leave early for the store. Mom is seldom down and I never am. Cookie will give you eats any time.”
“Seems like I’ve been up hours,” rejoined Lark. “I didn’t sleep very well. Heard horses more than once.”
“Let’s go down. . . . Stan left last night in a rage. I went to town. Didn’t get back till late.”
They had breakfast alone, to Lark’s relief.
“Say, Lark, for heaven’s sake, throw away that gray dress, will you? It looks dreadful.”
“All right, I will—after this time. Marigold, can I see the horses and ride this morning?”
“Of course. Maybe I’ll go with you. What have I got to do, anyway? No, I can’t. . . . But you don’t need me. Put on your riding clothes and go out to the barn. Hurd won’t be there—he was drunk last night. . . . But some of the boys will be there. Tell them I said you could have any horse in the outfit. So you take your pick.”
“Oh, thank you, cousin. That will be grand,” cried Lark, thrilled at the prospect. “And where will I ride?”
“There’s a thousand miles of sage back of the ranch, more or less,” laughed Marigold. “Lark, I’m glad that makes you look happy. We’ve got horses and sage enough, Lord knows. And do I need to warn you against cowboys?”
“Hardly. I reckon cowboys are all alike.”
“They are, and no good on earth, except—well, so long, Lark. Don’t ride clear to Horse Heaven Hill.”
Lark ran upstairs and soon, in a delight that caused her a mild astonishment, she had donned her riding garb. She laughed at her image in the big mirror. She was a boy once more, in jeans, boots, spurs, blouse and all, even to a battered old sombrero, which she pulled down over her wavy locks. Then, gloves in hand, she went sideways down the stairs, careful not to tear the carpet with her long spurs, and slipping
