picturesque infant at the Polo Ground and rode off with it; to the manner in which she poked the fire the first evening of our acquaintance, letting the flame light up her face; to her firm hand and quick eye as she drove those prancing steeds to Manitou. All seemed like so many wanton shots let fly without regard to the mischief they might do. And of course it was her perfect unconsciousness which rendered them fatal. I actually felt a grudge against her for having tumbled out of the apple tree at the age of seven, and for having so politely thanked her torturer for his services. I remembered with a shudder a remark John made one day when we first came to Colorado, and I was harping on the old string of Leslie Smith's identity.
"I don't care whether Miss Lamb writes poetry or not," John had suddenly declared. "She is a better poem herself than any I ever read."
Yes, John was in for it, that was sure as sunrise, and as I couldn't make up my
