on on the porch. "Play, Myra; please, dear,
play."

At her word, the music of the violin began again--coming now, from behind
the trunk of the sycamore. In the hands of the unseen musician, the
instrument laughed and sang a song of joyous abandonment--of freedom and
rejoicing--of happiness and love--while in perfect harmony with the spirit
and the rhythm of the melody, the girl danced upon the firm, green carpet
of grass. Here and there, to and fro, about the little glade shut in from
the world by its walls of living green, she tripped and whirled in
unstudied grace--lightly as if winged--unconscious as the wild creatures
that play in the depths of the woods--wayward as the zephyr that trips
along the mountainside.

It was a spontaneous expression of her spiritual and physical exaltation
and was as natural as the laughter in her voice or the flush upon her
cheeks. It was a dance that was like no dance that Aaron King had ever
seen.

The artist--watching through the screen of cedar boughs beside the old
wagon road and scarcely daring to breathe lest the beautiful vision should
vanish--forgot his position--forgot what he was doing. Fascinated by the
scene to which he had been led, so unexpectedly by the music he had so
often heard while at work in his studio, he was unmindful of the rude part
he was playing. He was brought suddenly to himself by a heavy hand upon
his shoulder. As he straightened, the hand whirled him half around and he
found himself looking into a face that was tanned and seamed by many years
in the open.

The man who had so unceremoniously commanded the artist's attention stood
a little above six feet in height, and was of that deep-chested, lean, but
full-muscled build that so often marks the mountain bred. He wore no coat.
At his hip, a heavy Colt revolver hung in its worn holster from a full,
loosely buckled, cartridge belt. Upon his unbuttoned vest was the shield
of the United States Forest Service. From under the brim of his slouch
hat, he gazed at Aaron King questioningly--in angry disapproval.

Instinctively, neither of the men spoke. A word would have been heard the
other side of the cedars. With a gesture commanding the artist to follow,
the Ranger quietly, withdrew along the wagon road toward the creek.

When they were at a distance where their voices would not reach the girl
in the glade, the Ranger said with angry abruptness, "Now, sir, perhaps
you will tell me who you are and what you