The fur season was over, and the flour mill was closed; the Indians had gone to their summer camps; and the steamboat had lately departed on her first trip up river, taking most of the company employees in her crew.
There was nothing afoot just now but farming, and Colina was not much interested in that.

In short, she was lonesome.

She rode idly with long detours inland in search of nothing at all.
Loping over the grass and threading her way among the poplar saplings, Colina proceeded farther than she had ever been in this direction since summer set in.
She saw the painter's brush for the first time--that exquisite rose of the prairies--and instantly dismounted to gather a bunch to thrust in her belt.

The delicate, ashy pink of the flower matched the color in her cheeks.
On her rides Colina was accustomed to dismount when she chose, and Ginger, her sorrel gelding, would crop the grass contentedly until she was ready to mount again.

To-day the spring must have been in his blood, too.
When Colina went to him he tossed his head coquettishly, and trotting away a few steps, turned and looked at her with a droll air.