iously--her eyes wide with that look of questioning
fright. He had almost reached her when, as though by an effort of her
will, she stopped and stood still--gazing into his face--trembling in
every limb. Then, with a low cry, she sank down in a frightened, cowering,
pleading attitude, and buried her crimson face in her hands.

As though some unseen hand checked him, the man halted, and the girl's
cheeks were not more crimson than his own.

A moment he stood, then a step brought him to her side. Putting out his
hand, he touched her upon the shoulder, and was about to speak. But at his
touch, with another cry, she sprang to her feet and, whirling with the
flash-like quickness of a wild thing, vanished into the undergrowth that
walled in the glade.

With a startled exclamation, the man tried to follow calling to her,
reassuring her, begging her to come back. But there was no answer to his
words; nor did he catch a glimpse of her; though once or twice he thought
he heard her in swift flight up the canyon.

All the way to the place where he had first seen her, he followed; but at
the cedar thicket he stopped. For a long time, he stood there; while the
twilight failed and the night came. Slowly,--in the soft darkness with
bowed head, as one humbled and ashamed,--he went back down the canyon to
the little glade, and to the camp.

Chapter XIX

The Three Gifts and Their Meanings

The next day, Aaron King--too distracted to paint--idled all the afternoon
in the glade. But the girl did not come. When it was dark, he returned to
camp; telling himself that she would never come again; that his rude
yielding to the lure of her wild beauty had rightly broken forever the
charm of their intimacy--and he cursed himself--as many a man has
cursed--for that momentary lack of self-control.

But the following afternoon, as the artist worked,--bent upon quickly
finishing his picture of the place that seemed now to reproach him with
its sweet atmosphere of sacred purity,--he heard, as he had heard that
first day, the low music of her voice blending with the music of the
mountain stream. Scarce daring to move, he sat as though absorbed in his
work--listening with all his heart, for some sound of her approach, other
than the melody of her song that grew more and more distinct. At last, he
knew that she was standing just the other side of the willows, beyond the
little spring. He felt her hidden eyes upon him, but dared not look t