Her decision to go to her dad had been born with the words on her lips.

But it was a lusty, full-voiced young decision, and it was growing at an amazing rate.
Of course she would go to her dad in Idaho! She was astonished that the idea had never before crystallized into action.

Why should she feed her imagination upon a mimic West, when the great, glorious real West was there?
What if her dad had not written a word for more than a year?
He must be alive; they would surely have heard of his death, for she and Royal were his sole heirs, and his partner would have their address.
She walked fast and arrived at the telephone booth so breathless that she was compelled to wait a few minutes before she could call her number.

She inquired about trains and rates to Echo, Idaho.
Echo, Idaho! While she waited for the information clerk to look it up the very words conjured visions of wide horizons and clean winds and high adventure.

If she pictured Echo, Idaho, as being a replica of the "set" used in the movie serial, can you wonder?
If she saw herself, the beloved queen of her father's cowboys, dashing into Echo, Idaho, on a crimply-maned broncho that pirouetted gaily before the post-office while handsome young men in chaps and spurs and "big four" Stetsons watched her yearningly, she was merely living mentally the only West that she knew.
From that beatific vision Lorraine floated into others more entrancing.
All the hairbreadth escapes of the heroine of the movie serial were hers, adapted by her native logic to fit within the bounds of possibility,--though I must admit they bulged here and there and threatened to overlap and to encroach upon the impossible.