Judith of the Godless Valley. Honoré Willsie Morrow

him. He's awful good-looking. I can see that now I'm growing up."

      "Growing up!" mocked Douglas.

      But before Judith could pick up the gauntlet, the horses came to pause before the lighted window. Judith jumped from Swift, unsaddled her and turned her into the corral. Then she went hurriedly into the house. Douglas unsaddled more slowly, and strode toward the sheds where calves were bellowing and cows lowing.

      For half an hour he worked in the starlight, throwing alfalfa to the crowding stock. It was so cold that by the ​time he had finished he scarcely could turn the door-knob with his aching fingers. He entered the kitchen.

      It was a large room, with the log walls neatly chinked and whitewashed. An unshaded kerosene lamp burned on the big table in the middle of the room. Judith was cutting bread. The air was heavy with smoke from frying beef. A tall, slender woman, with round shoulders, stood over the red-hot stove, stirring the potatoes. She was a very beautiful, very worn edition of Judith, though one wondered if she ever burned with even a small portion of Judith's eager, wistful fires. She turned as Douglas came in and gave him a quick smile.

      "Cold, Douglas?" she asked.

      The boy nodded. "Where's Dad?"

      "In the other room. His tooth still aches, I guess."

      "Is he sore because I'm late?" asked the boy, scowling.

      Judith answered with a curious jerking of her breath. "He tried to kick me. I hate him!"

      Douglas grunted and marched through the inner door into the one other room of the house. It was at least twenty-five feet square. The log walls were white-washed like the kitchen and from one of the huge pine rafters hung a lamp which shed a pleasant light on a center table. Beds occupied three corners of the room. There were several comfortable rocking-chairs, a big mahogany bureau and a sewing-machine. Over the double bed hung an ancient saber and over a low bookcase was a framed sampler. There were several good old-fashioned engravings and some framed lithographs with numerous books and piles of dilapidated magazines. Doug's father stood by the table with a book in his hand.

      John Spencer at forty-six was still a superb physical specimen, standing six feet two in his felt slippers. His face, so like, yet so unlike his son's, showed heavy lines ​from the nostril to the corner of the mouth. Beneath his eyes were faint pouches. The thick thatch of yellow hair had lost its yellow light and now was drab in tone. His flannel shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, showed a strong neck, and the rider's belt that circled the top of his blue denim pants outlined a waist as slim and hard as Doug's.

      He looked up. "What do you mean by coming in at this hour, you young hound?"

      "I think I might have Sunday afternoon to myself," said Douglas sulkily.

      "So do I. But that don't mean you are to have all Sunday night, too. Did you feed the calves?"

      "Yes."

      "Next Sunday you be here by five o'clock, understand?"

      "Yes."

      "Supper's ready!" called Judith.

      The table was covered by a red-checked cloth. A huge platter of fried beef, another of fried potatoes, another of baking-powder biscuits, and a pot of coffee steamed on the table. John did not speak until his first hunger had been satisfied. When he received his second cup of coffee, however, he said, "Well, my tooth's better. What happened this afternoon, children?"

      Judith did not reply, but Douglas, with a chuckle, told the story of Mr. Fowler's discomfiture. John and Mary shouted with laughter.

      "By old Sitting Bull, it serves him right!" John wiped his eyes. "What became of him?"

      "O, he beat it for the Pass!" replied Douglas.

      "What did you do after that?" inquired Mrs. Spencer.

      "We went up to the post-office to get Peter to let us ​have a dance, but there was nothing doing. He just gave us all a jaw because our horses were sweating."

      "I'll bet Swift was the worst off," chuckled John.

      'That's right! Pick on me!" cried Judith.

      "Judith! Be careful!" protested her mother.

      "Let her alone, Mary." John's blue eyes twinkled as he watched the young girl. "She's kept out of a row about as long as she can without choking."

      "Some day, when you least expect it," said Judith with a little quiver in her voice, "I'm going to run away."

      The others laughed.

      "Where to, Jude?" asked her stepfather.

      "To some place where folks like me."

      "I like you, Jude!" protested John.

      Judith turned to him quickly. "Why do you thrash me and kick me, then?"

      "Kids have to be trained, and you are as hard bitted as Buster," answered John.

      "No such thing!" Judith suddenly rose from the table. "It's just bad temper."

      "Judith! Judith! Don't!" pleaded her mother.

      "Let her alone!" John's voice was not angry. He was eying Judith with inscrutable gaze.

      "The next time you even try to kick me, I'm going to run away."

      She paused and suddenly Douglas thought, "Jude knows what real loneliness is. She's a very lonely person." He leaned forward and watched her with unwonted sympathy. She swallowed once or twice, and then went on:

      "A woman, a dog, and a horse, you don't kick any of them. Peter Knight says so. Maud Day's father never kicks her. He hits her with a belt, maybe, when she ​doesn't get his horse quickly enough, and maybe he hits her mother when he's drinking, but that's all." Judith began to gather up the dishes with trembling fingers.

      "How old are you, Judith?" asked John.

      "You know. I was fourteen last spring."

      "By jove, you are almost a woman grown!" John swept her with a look, then rose and went into the living room.

      Douglas followed him and, sitting down on the edge of his bed, he unbuckled his spurs. John settled himself under the lamp with his book, but he did not begin to read at once.

      "Yes, Doug? that girl is a woman now and she has any woman in Lost Chief beaten for beauty and nerve."

      Douglas gave his father a startled glance; then he said, with elaborate carelessness, "Rats! She's just a fighting kid!"

      John chuckled. "I'm glad you're still only a sixteen-year-old fool, Doug."

      The boy said nothing more. He scowled and sat staring at his father long after that strenuous person was absorbed in his book. Then he kicked off his boots, pulled off his vest and trousers and crawled into bed. Not long after, Mrs. Spencer came in, glanced at her husband, sighed wearily, then she too went to bed. Judith finished wiping the dishes, sauntered in to the center table and shortly was absorbed in "Bleak House." Mrs. Spencer was snoring quietly and Douglas had not stirred for an hour when he heard his father say in a low voice:

      "Jude, old girl, I'm never going to lay finger on you again."

      Jude gave a little gasp of surprise. "What's happened, Dad?"

      ​"You've happened! By jove, you've grown to be a beautiful woman!"

      "Huh! Doug says I'm a homely, pug-nosed outlaw."

      "Doug's a fool kid. It takes a man like me that knows women to appreciate you, Jude."

      "Doug'll hear you," warned the girl.

      "He's been dead for an hour. Give me a kiss, Judith."

      "I don't think I will, I'm too sleepy and tired. Guess I'll go to bed!" She rose, dropping "Bleak House" as she did so.

      Mrs. Spencer woke with a start. "What's the matter?"

      "Nothing!