A substantial, well-told, satisfying story of the wild lands, of the sort that grows less and less frequent, "Tharon of Lost Valley" ought to find warm welcome at the hands of all who prefer the red-blooded, elemental type of ficiton to that of the paler hue, the more sophisticated manner and the more psychological interest that dominate the novels of recent years. -- New York Times Book Review, November 16, 1919
at seemed to emanate from her father's riders, a bit wistful withal, as if, for the first time in her life, she needed something more than she had always had.
"Which way did Dad go, Billy?" she asked, "north or south?"
"North," said Billy, "he rode th' Cup Rim range today."
When the meal, a trifle silent in deference to Tharon's silence, was done, the men rose awkwardly. They stood a moment, looking about, undecided.
Conford picked them up with his eyes and nodded out. He felt that just maybe the girl would rather be alone. But Tharon stopped the reluctant egress.
"Don't go, boys," she said, "come on in th' room. There's no moon tonight." But she did not play on the melodeon. Instead she sat in the deep window that looked over the rolling uplands and was quiet, listening.
"Turn out th' light, Bent," she said, "somehow I feel like shadows tonight."
So they sat about in the great room, black with the darkness of the soft spring night, and like the true worshipper
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