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Lucy Watson did not leave home without regrets. For a long time she gazed at the desert scenery through tear-blurred eyes. But this sadness seemed rather for the past–the home that had been, before the death of her mother and the elopement of her younger sister with a cowboy. This escapade of Clara’s had been the last straw. Lucy had clung to the home in the hope she might save her sister from following in the footsteps of others of the family. Always she had felt keenly the stigma of being the daughter of a saloon-keeper. In her school days she had suffered, under this opprobrium, and had conceived an ideal to help her rise above the circumstances of her position. Clara’s deflection had left her free. And now she was speeding away from the town where she had been born, with an ache in her heart, and yet a slowly dawning consciousness of relief, of hope, of thrill. By the time she reached Oglethorpe, where she was to take a branch- line train, she was able to address all her faculties to a realisation of her adventures.