A Mountain Woman

Her tone was dejected. I thought she was tired.

"Oh, no!" she protested, when I apolo- gized for my thoughtlessness in bringing her so far. "I'm not tired. I can ride all day. Where I come from, we have to ride if we want to go anywhere; but here there seems to be no particular place to -- to reach."

"Are you so utilitarian?" I asked, laugh- ingly. "Must you always have some reason for everything you do? I do so many things just for the mere pleasure of doing them, I'm afraid you will have a very poor opinion of me."

"That is not what I mean," she said, flushing, and turning her large gray eyes on me. "You must not think I have a reason for everything I do." She was very earnest, and it was evident that she was unacquainted with the art of making conversation. "But what I mean," she went on, "is that there is no place -- no end -- to reach." She looked back over her shoulder toward the west, where the trees marked the sky line, and an exp