The world was far away and quite forgotten.
Summer deepened into autumn, the fall round-up was approaching, and there came a September day of such limpid light and such nippy sprightly air as to suggest to Mandy nothing less than a holiday.
"Let's strike!" she cried to her husband, as she looked out toward the rolling hills and the overtopping peaks shining clear in the early morning light.

"Let's strike and go a-fishing." Her husband let his eyes wander over the full curves of her strong and supple body and rest upon the face, brown and wholesome, lit with her deep blue eyes and crowned with the red-gold masses of her hair, and exclaimed: "You need a holiday, Mandy.

I can see it in the drooping lines of your figure, and in the paling of your cheeks.

In short," moving toward her, "you need some one to care for you." "Not just at this moment, young man," she cried, darting round the table.

"But, come, what do you say to a day's fishing away up the Little Horn ?" "The Little Horn ?" "Yes, you know the little creek running into the Big Horn away up the gulch where we went one day in the spring.