A stanch but frail-looking ferry-boat waited to carry the Ranger train across Green River.

Jean, who, after her mother’s death, had developed a strong propensity for daily hours of solitude, looked longingly at the desolate scenery while her father’s train was awaiting its turn at the ferry, and, noting the great table-rock that still overlooks the river, climbed unaided to its top, where she became so deeply absorbed in contemplating the wild, weird character of the scenery about her that she did not see that the afternoon was waning, until the sun was down.

“The Psalmist wondered at the mystery of the heavens, but I marvel at the mysteries of earth,” she said. “Tell me, ye rugged rocks, and you, ye waters of the desert, the secret of existence, if you can. Am I alone with Thee, O God? Or are these rough-ribbed rocks, like me, instinct with life?”

“You’d better hurry, young lady, or you’ll miss the last trip of the ferry-boat for the night,” cried a voice that seemed to come from beneath her feet. Thoroughly frightened, she hastened to retrace her steps. How she regained the river-bank she could never recollect; but when she stood panting at the water’s edge, and beheld through the gloaming the last of her father’s wagons ascending the opposite steep, it was past the twilight hour, and one by one the stars came out amid the circling blue of the bending sky. The roar of the waters was deafening.

“Can I do anything for you, miss?”

It was the same voice that had reached her from beneath the rock. She looked up and beheld a tall, sunburned young man, bowing and lifting a broad sombrero, who seemed as much embarrassed over the novel situation as herself.

“I am glad to see the face of a white man, sir. I was frightened half out of my senses till I saw you.”

“And are you not frightened now?”

“Yes, a little bit. There are too many Indians stalking about to allow me to feel exactly comfortable. But I shall rely upon you for protection, sir.”

“I suppose other trains will be along presently. They will encamp on this side of the river for the night, so you will have company.”

“We are away ahead of the other trains, sir. We took a cut-off in the mountains.”

“But you are afraid of the Indians?”

“No, sir; not now, because—” She stopped as she looked into his kindly face and caught the amused gleam of a pair of piercing eyes.

“Because—why?”

“Because you talk and act like a gentleman, sir. I am not afraid of a gentleman.” She paused again, surprised at her own composure. Her eyes fell, and a deep flush overspread her features, as the thought flashed through her mind that she was utterly in the power of this stranger.

“Can you ferry me across the river to-night, sir? My daddie will pay you well for your trouble.”

“I could not attempt it. We never risk running the ferry after sundown. Guess we can make you comfortable on this side till morning.”

“But there is no house where I can stop, and I haven’t any money. But that’s nothing new for girls. They never have money.”

“Oh, yes, they do, often. In the old country, where I came from, girls often inherit money; and some of them own very large estates.”

“But only by courtesy, sir.”

He smiled at her frank simplicity. “You are sure of a safe night’s lodging and a speedy return to the custody of the man you call daddie. What ever possessed you to bestow upon him such a name?”

“It was merely a notion, and is peculiar to myself in our family. But, sir, what ever shall I do? Daddie will be frightened out of his wits; and so will Mame and Marjorie and Hal!” and Jean began to weep convulsively.

“There, there, don’t cry! There is nothing to be afraid of. I have a home in the bank yonder. It isn’t a palace,—only a cave, or dugout, in the side of the rock,—but it is clean and dry and warm. You’ll be as securely protected there as in your father’s camp. I could do no better, under the circumstances, for my mother or my Queen.”

“Are you English, sir?”

“I am proud to answer, Yes.”

“You don’t look like the subject of a woman ruler.”

“Why not?”

“Because you seem like a sovereign in your own right.”

“So I am, in America.”

“I mean to be a sovereign American, myself, some day.”

He laughed and shook his head.

“I hope you are never going to become one of those discontented women whom I’ve heard of in America, who are engaged in a perpetual quarrel with their Creator because they were not born men.”

“Have you seen such women in America, sir?”

“No; but I have read some newspapers that made the charge.”

“Do you believe everything that you read in the papers? Daddie don’t.”

“I can’t say that I do.”

“God understands what He is about when He creates a girl, sir; and God didn’t create us to be the vassals of anybody. All we ask is a chance to do our best in everything, ourselves being the judges as to what that best shall be.”

“How old are you?”

“Almost sixteen.”

“You act with the charm of a child, but you talk like a grown-up woman. Are all the girls of your family equally clever?”

“God never made two trees, or even two leaves of a tree, exactly alike. You couldn’t expect two persons to be alike.”

The stranger, conscious of a peculiar interest in this new and original character, felt a tumultuous sensation in the region of his heart.

“I am hungry, sir. But as I haven’t any money, I must ask you to trust me till to-morrow.”

He was leading her toward his dugout as they talked, or rather as he listened. He had a school-day remembrance of a pair of brown eyes like Jean’s. He had worshipped those eyes from a distance, for their possessor was a nobleman’s daughter with whom he had never exchanged sentiments, and she had never bestowed a thought upon him. And here was this artless, untaught, but wonderfully intelligent maiden, in a travel-soiled blue calico dress, and sunbonnet to match, who seemed to him possessed of potentialities so far in advance of any promise ever given by the object of his earlier dreams that he spurned the thought of comparing the two as he dwelt upon her words. His heart continued its wild tattoo, and he felt as if walking on air.

“Here! This way, Siwash,” he called to his Indian servant, as he paused in front of his lodgings and tendered her a seat outside. “As you see, I have company. Get up the very best meal the place affords. This guest and I are to dine together.”

The Indian grunted assent; and the simple meal of pemmican, black coffee, army biscuit, and baked beans fresh from the covering of hot ashes in which they had been smothered till done to a turn, which formed the ferryman’s usual bill of fare, was supplemented by a dessert of tea-cakes and preserved ginger, the whole arranged on a small table covered with a white oilcloth and furnished with tin dishes and steel cutlery.

“I trust you will excuse the accompaniments of a higher civilization, little miss. You will find the fare plain but palatable.”

“It is fine,” cried Jean, as she ate with the zest that a life in the open air alone can give. “Nobody need ask for better.”

“Will you favor me with your past history?” asked her host, after the repast was finished.

“There isn’t much to tell, sir. My daddie got the farthest West fever a good while ago; but he never sold out his farm and sawmill till last March. Then he got ready, and we started across the continent. God saw that the journey was too hard for my dear mother, so He took her to heaven from the Black Hills. And now, sir, will you tell me about yourself? Were you born in London?”

“Why do you think I was born in London?”

“Because you remind me of my great-grandmother. She was born in London. We call her Grannie.”

The Indian servant had heaped some fagots of sagewood upon the hearth, filling the little room with a pungent and not unpleasant odor, and diffusing a delightful warmth and glow through the air, to which the light of a pair of candles gave an eerie charm.

“To be plain with you, I grew weary of life at college, so I ran away and went to sea. I was a headstrong boy, and gave my mother a whole lot of trouble.”

He ceased speaking and bowed his head upon his hands, his elbows upon the table. Jean saw that his fingers were long and shapely, his head was large and well-balanced, and his abundant hair was brown and bright and slightly curled.

“Were you never sorry, sir?”

“Having put my hand to the plough, or rather helm, I couldn’t afford to turn back—or at least I thought I couldn’t—till I had made my fortune.”

“Did you make your fortune, sir?”

“Not till—” He checked the word that was in his heart. “I first went to Montreal, where I fell in with a company of Hudson Bay traders, with whom I went to the Great Northern Lakes. I soon made, and lost, several fortunes. I have always intended to return to my mother, but the years have come and gone; and now, at the age of twenty-four, you find me, as you see, with another fortune to make. But it seems an uphill struggle.”

“Do you write regularly to your mother, sir?”

“I am sorry to be compelled to answer no; but I promise you to do better hereafter. And now, as the evening wanes, and I must leave you to the privileges of my castle for the night, will you tell me your name?”

“Certainly. It is Ranger,—Jean Robinson Ranger. And you are Mr.—?”

“Ashleigh; Ashton Ashleigh, of Ashton Place, London, England.”

“May I write to your mother from my Oregon home, when I get there, and tell her all I know about you?”

“Isn’t that an odd request, Miss Ranger?”

Jean blushed to the tips of her ears.

“Nobody ever called me Miss Ranger before,” she said, to hide her confusion. “My sister Mary is the Miss Ranger of our family. Yes, I did make an unusual request; but I thought of your mother pining for news of her son, and fancied she might be glad to hear about him, even from a stranger. But I see that it would hardly be proper for me to write; so please do it yourself.”

“Write to her by all means, Miss Ranger, as I assure you I surely will. And now,” he added, rising, “I hear your Indian maid tapping outside, and it is time to say good-night. I trust you will sleep well and have pleasant dreams.”

“Good-night, Mr. Ashleigh. I thank you ever so much for all your kindness.”