oring the reference to their neighbors, the novelist replied suavely
that they felt they must return to civilization as some matters in
connection with the new edition of his last novel demanded his attention,
and the artist wished to get back to his studio and to his work.

"Really," urged Rutlidge, mockingly, "you ought not to go down now. The
deer season opens in two days. Why not join our party for a hunt? We would
be delighted to have you."

They were coolly thanking him for the invitation,--that, from the tone in
which it was given, was so evidently not meant,--when Czar, with a joyful
bark, dashed away through the grove. A moment, and a clear, girlish voice
called from among the trees that bordered the cienaga, "Whoo-ee." It was
the signal that Sibyl always gave when she approached their camp.

James Rutlidge broke into a low laugh while Sibyl's friends looked at each
other in angry consternation as the girl, following her hail and
accompanied by the delighted dog, appeared in full view; her fishing-rod
in hand, her creel swung over her shoulder.

The girl's embarrassment, when, too late, she saw and recognized their
visitor, was pitiful. As she came slowly forward, too confused to retreat,
Rutlidge started to laugh again, but Aaron King, with an emphasis that
checked the man's mirth, said in a low tone, "Stop that! Be careful!"

As he spoke, the artist arose and with Conrad Lagrange went forward to
greet Sibyl in--as nearly as they could--their customary manner.

Formally, Rutlidge was presented to the girl; and, under the threatening
eyes of the painter, greeted her with no hint of rudeness in his voice or
manner; saying courteously, with a smile, "I have had the pleasure of Miss
Andres' acquaintance for--let me see--three years now, is it not?" he
appealed to her directly.

"It was three years ago that I first saw you, sir," she returned coolly.

"It was my first trip into the mountains, I remember," said Rutlidge,
easily. "I met you at Brian Oakley's home."

Without replying, she turned to Aaron King appealingly. "I--I left my
gloves and fly-book. I was going fishing and called to get them."

The artist gave her the articles with a word of regret for having so
carelessly forgotten to return them to her. With a simple "good-by" to her
two friends but without even a glance toward their caller, she went back
up the canyon, in the direction from which she had come.

When the girl had disappeared among t