She was sweeping the doorstep with the one-sided broom when Brit drove
out through the gate and up the trail which she knew led eventually to
Sugar Spring. The horses, sleek in their new hair and skittish with the
change from hay to new grass, danced over the rough ground so that the
running gear of the wagon, with its looped log-chain, which would later
do duty as a brake on the long grade down from timber line on the side
of Spirit Canyon, rattled and banged over the rocks with a clatter that
could be heard for half a mile. Lorraine looked after her father
enviously. If she were a boy she would be riding on that sack of hay
tied to the "hounds" for a seat. But, being a girl, it had never
occurred to Brit that she might like to go,--might even be useful to
him on the trip.
"I suppose if I told dad I could drive that team as well as he can, he'd
just look at me and think I was crazy," she thought resentfully and gave
the broom a spiteful fling toward a presumptuous hen that had approached
too closely. "If I'd asked him to let me go along he'd have made some
excuse--oh, I'm beginning to know dad! He thinks a woman's place is in
the house--preferably the kitchen.
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