selves, that we have only so many possibilities, that we can not do two things at one time, and can only do a very circumscribed number of things before the end, once we grasp that idea we may consider a little more carefully this business of wasting time. You see, we build our lives with time. To build them of waste time is a foolish business. What worth-while thing can be built out of waste? Good sound stone or wood or steel or concrete we use to build our houses with. Building a life out of hours spent on cheap, stupid, selfish, mean things is hardly worth while. Not when the good stuff is here, to be had for the choosing. A healthy, happy, active day is a wonderful chunk of building material in this affair of making life. Shutting up your mind inside an hour filled with anything less than the best you can possibly get is bad building, shoddy work. All that goes for your growth, for the enrichment of your mind and spirit, for the sound development of muscle, for sympathy and understanding; all that helps you to know more of this marvelous world into which we are born, whose tiniest happenings are so full of a mysterious power, where the very movements of the clouds across the sky and the curve of an incoming wave are worthy of profound thought and capable of giving great joy; all that opens your heart to your comrades, that makes friendship worthy and love real and deep; all that trains you to do work that shall be sound and true; all that trains you to think straight thoughts and do straight deeds-all these are to be made out of the hours that go to you, your very own. A certain amount of waste there will always be; it is one of the laws of nature, though even for that waste some ultimate use is found, perhaps, since nature moves inside a smaller circle than is ours. For us, we can not be sure of redeeming the waste we have created; at the best, the matter will be long and unsatisfactory. It is wiser to use our hours when we have them, knowing that they at least pass to come no more. But don't feel hurried about these hours of yours. You have all there are during the period in which you have any use for hours, and all there are is enough. You can waste one by rushing and banging through it, feeling it is altogether too short for your needs, quite as easily as by dawdling. A life that is always on the jump, that keeps a wild eye on the clock and crowds detail enough for three hours into one, is wasting time because it is wasting and exhausting itself. I know persons who never have time to see a good picture, to hear good music, to take a leisurely stroll, to sit in cheerful talk over a cup of tea. They have made such a mess of their hours that they might almost as well not live them at all. Time does not hurry, it is ample and serene. time to live, for that is what time is for. If you do not live in your hours, you might as well not have any. They are waste indeed. Take By ADAIR ALDON SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS INSTALMENTS IN the small town of Ely, in the Rocky Mountains, Beatrice Deems, her sister Nancy, and their Aunt Anna settle down for the summer, ostensibly for their aunt's health, although the girls begin to surmise that there may be other reasons for their coming. They find the town full of foreign laborers, employed by the company that is constructing an irrigation system for this valley. On the mountainside above is a tract of land and a cabin which belong to Beatrice, given to her by her father. A Finnish-Russian agitator, Thorvik, is the leader of the workingmen, who begin rioting when the irrigation work is closed down for lack of funds. Christina Jensen, Thorvik's sister, is friendly to the girls, and warns them of the danger in the lawless town. They go with their aunt to the cabin where, as they settle down, they find that their nearest neighbors are a girl named Hester and her father by adoption, John Herrick, who seems unpleasantly surprised at learning, who Beatrice is. Beatrice writes a letter for Christina to her son Olaf, who has slipped away and gone to sea. Thorvik discovers what she has done for his sister and, in an ugly mood, forbids further intercourse between them. CHAPTER V A MYSTERY AND A DETECTIVE It was a week later, and Beatrice, with a shining landscape of blue mountains and green forest showing beyond her through the open door, was standing on the threshold in her riding clothes. "I 've finished my share of the housework and I'm off for a ride," she said to Nancy. Her sister smiled broadly over her dusting. "I would never have thought," she declared, "that you could curry a horse and split the kindling before breakfast and that I could scrub floors and wash dishes every day and that we both of us would like it. There must be something strange in this mountain air." They had begun to feel as settled as though they had been at their housekeeping in the cabin for months. The cottage itself was a different place, an entrancingly pleasant and comfortable one. Hester Herrick, with whom they were now great friends, was always bringing them things-big black andirons for the great fireplace, a collection of soft pine-pillows and the thick bearskin rug that lay before the hearth. "Roddy said you were to have it. He shot the bear himself last winter," she said, when the girls protested that this last gift was too valuable. Sam also had brought a bashfully presented offering-the pelt of a mountain-lion, which now served as Aunt Anna's bedside rug. Nancy had put up white blue-bordered curtains at the little square windows, and had set on the wide sills pots of red berries, boxes of ferns, and bowls of bright-faced pansies. With the fresh wind fluttering the curtains and the sunshine lying in patches on the white scrubbed floor, the little cabin was as gay and homelike a place as heart could desire. Christina, in spite of Thorvik's interdiction, still came every day. This morning she arrived earlier than usual, with their marketing in a big basket, and the mail, for it was not wise, even yet, for the girls to go often to the village. She took some letters in to their Aunt Anna and remained for some time, since Miss Deems appeared to be asking her questions. "No," the girls overheard her say, "there is no one of your name hereabouts. But Olaf and I have only lived in this valley ten years, so it might have been before." Beatrice looked up, startled. What had her aunt been asking and why should there be any one of their name living in this far-off place? She remembered her former wonder concerning that brother of whom they never heard anything at home. But Christina came out, closed the door, and went away down the path. The bright morning was calling and Beatrice forgot her curiosity in looking forward to her ride. "Don't you want to go, Nancy?" she said as she went through the kitchen. "No," returned Nancy, briskly, "I don't care for riding as you do, and this morning I would not go for anything. I am going to try making bread." The exploration of strange forests and dizzy mountain-sides was nothing to Nancy compared with the excitement of cooking something new. Beatrice's ride was doomed to delay, however, for as she was leading her pony around the corner of the house, she came upon a visitor, a total stranger, standing on the doorstep. He was apparently annoyed at finding no door-bell and having his knock go unheard. He shuffled his feet, coughed, and rapped smartly on the door again and again, as though he were a person of such importance that he must not be kept waiting. Beatrice realized suddenly how used she had has sent me here, or, rather, I volunteered to come, to investigate this unfortunate affair going on in Broken Bow Valley." "Oh, you mean the strike?" Beatrice asked, rather bewildered and not knowing why the overdressed Mr. Mills should have sought out their remote cabin. He made a movement as though to go in; but since Beatrice seemed not at all inclined to open the door, he sat down on the step with easy assurance, laid his hat on the stone, and took out a notebook. "The affair is more like a lockout than a strike, but not exactly that, either," he continued, with that irresistible fluency of speech adopted by people who talk a great deal to unwilling listeners. "As I understand it, the situation is this: the Broken Bow Irrigation Company undertakes to construct the necessary dams, ditches, and sluice-gates to water this dry valley, a big project in which a certain John Herrick, resident of these parts, has large interests." "I did not know about John Herrick's share in it," Beatrice said. She was beginning, already, to catch the Western habit of dropping the title Mr. except in direct address. Since she was unwilling that the stranger should come in, for fear he would disturb and annoy Aunt Anna, and since he made no move to go away, she finally sat down upon the step. "NO, THERE'S NO ONE OF YOUR NAME HEREABOUTS' " become to Ely's conventional costume of flannel shirt and high boots, since this dapper new-comer, with his pointed shoes and tight, high-waisted coat, looked not only uncomfortable, but absurd. "Good morning, Miss Deems, beautiful day, is it not?" began the stranger, easily. "Mills is my name, Dabney Mills of the Brownsville 'Evening Star.' My paper "The money for this affair," Mills went on, "was raised in part, as is usual, by owners of the land which is to be irrigated, but the greater amount was to be subscribed by capitalists outside the valley, John Herrick pledging himself to see that the necessary sum was forthcoming. So far, so good." He tapped the note-book with a stubby forefinger and went on with significant emphasis. "Now, it is known that just before this outbreak the finances of the company were in good condition, and that there was no talk of funds giving out before the work was completed. Yet when the men held a meeting to debate whether they should go on strike for increased wages,-they had already had one increase, but Thorvik insisted it was not enough, they were served with a notice that the capital was exhausted and that construction was shut down. That is what all the trouble is about." He looked at Beatrice very wisely, but she said nothing. She was aware of Nancy standing in the door and looking at Dabney Mills's back in round-eyed astonishment. She finally called her out, stiffly introduced the new-comer, and motioned Nancy to sit beside her. "Yes, sir, the money was gone!" The polished manner of Mills's narrative dropped suddenly into the colloquial, as though the effort had been too much for him. "The men mobbed the office building, demanding to know what had happened, and the officers of the unions were allowed to examine the books and even to look into the safe; but it was plain to them all that the company could n't turn up a red cent. Been stolen, so people begin to say, but no one knows who did it. Now the men are lounging around town, idle, quarreling, and looking for trouble. Not a wheel can turn until the money is found." It will take a smarter man than he is to get anywhere. I'm on my way up to interview John Herrick-he 's the big man of the company and he ought to be able to give me something. But in case he won't talk, I thought I would stop and learn what I could from his neighbors, I understand you know Miss Herrick well. Now anything you can tell me will be useful. What do you know of John Herrick or his habits or his business?" He waited, with pencil poised. "We don't know anything, and we would n't tell you if we did!" cried Nancy, indignantly. "It is n't hard, usually, to find out about people from their neighbors," Dabney Mills declared, quite unabashed. "You are staying with your aunt, I understand. Perhaps if I went in and spoke to her " "You will do nothing of the sort!" Beatrice had found the voice of which astonishment and anger had robbed her. "My aunt is not to be disturbed, and there is not the least use in asking us any more questions." "Oh well, of course if you are going to take it like that-" Dabney Mills rose and pocketed his note-book. He seemed quite unoffended and not convinced, even yet, that his quest was fruitless. "I'll drop in again in a day or two." Beatrice walked with great dignity into the house, followed by Nancy, who could not help turning to look after the reporter as he trudged away through the pines, the cock of his hat and the swagger of his shoulders showing that he did not even yet Nancy looked at him with inquisitive acknowledge defeat. interest. "And did you come to Ely to find it?" she asked. "Well-why, if you put it that way, I guess I did," he answered, reddening a little, but seeming flattered, on the whole, by the bluntness of her question. "I told the editor of my paper that it would make a big story if any one could find out just who made way with that money. He did n't think a cub reporter could do much, but I offered to come up here on my own responsibility and get to the bottom of the whole affair. It will be a smashing big hit for me if I make good." "I do hope Aunt Anna was n't bothered," said Beatrice, as she tiptoed into the inner room, to discover her aunt propped up in the invalid chair and rocked by a gale of laughter. "You did very well, my dears," Aunt Anna said. "Even his back is bristling with indignation as he marches away. I could not help overhearing, with the door open, and you were both well equal to the situation. What a strange, impertinent man, or boy, rather, for he is scarcely grown up! I wonder that any reputable newspaper employs him!" "He said he was doing this on his own re He opened his note-book and fluttered sponsibility and was going to sell the news to over the leaves. "Of course, the sheriff is working on the job; but these country officials are no sleuths. a paper later," explained Beatrice. "He thinks he is going to make some startling discovery." "I believe," asserted Nancy, wagging her head sagely, "that when he was young and his character was forming, his mother let him read too many detective stories and they did n't agree with him. He thinks he is Sherlock Holmes and Craig Kennedy and all the others rolled into one. That is what is the matter with him." "You take a charitable view, Nancy," returned her aunt, "and I rather think your diagnosis is right. But insistent, foolish people of his kind can often do a great deal of harm without intending it." Beatrice returned, finally, to the impatient Buck and rode down the path toward the gate. It was her intention to explore some of the upper trails of the mountain-side today, for she had no desire to ride in the direction of the village. Once only had she been forced to go to town, and she had felt very uneasy under the sullen, unfriendly stare of the idle foreigners lounging about the doorways or sitting in rows at the edge of the board sidewalks. She was to be delayed once more, however, by another visitor, one even more unwelcome than the first. She had dismounted to give a final jerk to the cinch of the girth and was about to swing into the saddle again to ride through the gate when she saw Thorvik come striding across the lowered bars. His face was red with the heat of his steep climb, and the veins stood out on his forehead below his bristling tow-colored hair. Such a face she had never seen before, distorted with anger and flushed with hate. He pulled a letter from his pocket as he came near and held it up. Thinking that it was for her, she stretched out her hand to take it, but he snatched it back beyond her reach. "You are to look, not to have it," he said in a voice thick with rage. She saw that it was addressed in a plain, school-boy hand to "Mrs. Christina Jensen, Ely, Montana." "Why," she cried, "it must be from-" "From that Olaf," snarled Thorvik. "And why should he be writing, if not because he has had an answer to his letter of long ago. I told her there should be no answer. Who wrote for her?" "I did," returned Beatrice, steadily, although her hot temper was beginning to rise within her. She made a move to remount her horse, but the man stepped forward and seized the bridle. Buck, nervous and startled, wheeled and reared, but could not jerk free from the iron grip on his bit. Thorvik moved up the path and put himself between Beatrice and the house. Terror, as well as anger, was beginning to take possession of her, but she faced him without flinching. "You wrote it-after I forbid?" His voice shook with fury. "Then this is what I do with the answer." He slipped the rein over his arm and with his two great hard hands tore the letter into shreds that went whirling and scattering in the wind all across the side of the hill. "Had Christina read it?" cried Beatrice, in dismay. "No, Christina can not read, nor I. She is crying at home. I told her I would bring the letter to you and tear it up before your face, to show you how much use is it to meddle with the business of other people." "And she will never know what he said?" Beatrice exclaimed. "You took it from her before she could hear? You coward-you-" "Steady, my dear." A man's quiet voice sounded at her elbow, and she turned suddenly to see John Herrick. "Anger won't get you anywhere with people of this fellow's kind," he said gently. "If you wish to order a man off your grounds, you must do it quietly." And then, fortified by the knowledge that John Herrick was beside her, Beatrice had the strange delight of directing an insolent intruder to drop her horse's rein and leave her premises, and of seeing him obey. For Thorvik went. He blustered, stammered, then finally relinquished Buck's bridle and marched away to the gate. He stopped before he passed through to hurl a defiance over his shoulder, but he hastened on immediately after. "I-I am glad you came," observed Beatrice, a little shakily. The incident had been an unpleasant one, nor could she guess what the result would have been had not help appeared from this unexpected quarter. "I am glad, also," John Herrick returned gravely. "A strange creature, who called himself a reporter, stopped me at my door as I was starting for the village. He asked me a great many impudent questions, but he happened to mention that he had seen Thorvik going in through your gate. At that, I rode off at once, leaving him with his mouth and his note-book both still open. Here comes our journalistic friend now. He seems to find this morning sun a trifle uncomfortable." Very hot and wilted did Dabney Mills look as he came trudging down the path, his |