"Oh, daddy," exclaimed Ethel, "what a gorgeous forest of flowers. I feel lost in admiration. I am prouder than ever, daddy, indeed I am, of being an American girl and a daughter of Kansas, that has the beautiful sunflower for its emblem."
It was past noon when they dismounted for dinner at one of Mr. Horton's ranch-houses on the banks of the river. They did not start on their return trip until late in the afternoon. When the sun had disappeared behind the horizon, they were still several miles down the valley from Horton's Grove. Their road lay along the banks of the Manaroya, whose cool, purling waters talked incessantly in their flight.
They had reined their horses into a walk.
Ethel had become communicative, and, as she talked and laughed, her father was delighted; indeed, the cattle king was in a humor to be pleased with whatever Ethel might do or say. He told himself that the day had been a treat such as he had not enjoyed since Ethel went away to school.
"Do you know, daddy," said she, "that I am really glad Lord Avondale has gone."
Mr. Horton had not expected that his daughter would refer to the painful subject. "Well, Ethel," said he, "I am glad to see that you are not cut up about it, although I expected you would be from what your mother said."
"Not a bit, daddy; I did not love him. Could you not see that I was unhappy? But it seemed that there was no escape. Don't look so scared, daddy, or I won't talk to you." Her silvery laugh floated away on the soft night winds, and John Horton tried to disguise his surprise.
"I don't say, Ethel," said he, "that it would not have been a great trial to me for you to have gone so far away. I thought it was your wish, however, and you know I am ready at all times to sacrifice all the beeves on the range to add to your happiness."
"I don't care to speak disrespectfully of any one, daddy, but I will say that mamma was not to blame as much as others, in this foolish ambition to have me wedded to a title. I am not the sort of American girl to value old English laces and bric-à-brac, simply because they are old."
"How about your brain-worker, Ethel, that you once told me of?" asked her father, timidly.
"That's just it, daddy, I love him and can't stop. I wrote him that you were on our side and told him to come, but he never answered my letter." She sighed wearily, and her voice was plaintively low. "Well, I've had a great day," she went on, "and here we are at home again."
