ture of Ward,
sitting absorbed in a book which he never afterwards mentioned, and
letting her or her mother lift heavy pieces of wood upon the fire
within arm's reach of him; sitting with his hat tilted back upon his
head and a cigarette gone cold in his fingers, and perhaps not replying
at all when he was spoken to. She had never considered him uncouth or
rude; he was Ward Warren, and these were certain individual traits
which he possessed and which seemed a part of him. She had sensed
dimly that some natures are too big and too strong for petty rules of
deportment, and that Ward might sit all day in the house with his hat
on his head and still be a gentleman of the finer sort. And yet, now
that Charlie Fox had come and presented an example of the world's
standard, Billy Louise could not, for the life of her, help wishing
that Ward was different. And there were other things; things which
Billy Louise was ashamed to recognize as influencing her in any way,
and yet which did influence her. For instance, Ward lived to himself
and for himself, and not always wisely or well. He was arrogant in his
opinions--Billy Louise had rather admired what she had called his
strength, but it had become arrogance now--and his scorn was swift and
keen for blunderings. And there was Charlie, always thinking and
planning for Marthy and putting her wishes first; wanting to make sure
that he himself had not blundered, and with a conservative estimate of
himself that was refreshingly modest. And--

"Ain't that Ward coming, Billy Louise? Seems to me it looks like
him--the way he rides."

Billy Louise started guiltily and looked up toward the trail, now piled
deep with shadows. It was Ward, all right, and his voice, lifted in a
good-humored shout, brought Billy Louise to her feet and sent her down
the slope to the stable, where he had stopped as a matter of course.

When he turned and smiled at her through the dusk and said, "'Lo,
Bill," in a voice that was like a spoken kiss, a certain young woman
hated herself for a weak-souled traitor and mentally called Charlie Fox
a popinjay, which was merely shifting injustice to another
resting-place.

"Are you plumb tickled to death to see me, William?"

"Oh, no; but I guess I can stand it!"

A smile to go with both sentences, and a strong undercurrent of
something unnamed in their tones--who wanted the pasteurized milk and
distilled water of a perfectly polite form of greeting? Not Bil