tever mood she might present.

She turned her head quickly and looked at him, and the hurt look was
still in her eyes, the droop still showed at her lips. And Ward knew
they had been there before she saw him.

"Wha's molla, Bill?" he asked, in the tone that was calculated to
invite an unburdening of her troubles.

"Ob, nothing in particular. Mommie's been awfully sick, and I'm always
worried when I'm away from the ranch, for fear she'll have another
spell while I'm gone. The doctor said she might have, any time. Were
you headed for our place? If you are, come on; I was just starting
back. I don't dare be away any longer." If that were a real
unburdening, Ward was an unreasonable young man. Billy Louise looked
at him again, and this time her eyes were clear and friendly.

Ward was not satisfied, for all the surface seemed smooth enough. He
was too sensitive not to feel a difference, and he was too innocent of
any wrongdoing or thinking to guess what was the matter. Guilt is a
good barometer of personal atmosphere, and Ward had none of it. The
worst of him she had known for more than a year; he had told her
himself, and she had healed the hurt--almost--of the past by her firm
belief in him and by her friendship. Could you expect Ward to guess
that she had seen her faith in him die a violent death no longer than
two weeks ago? Such a possibility never occurred to him.

For all that, he felt there was a difference somewhere. It chilled his
eagerness a little, and it blanketed his enthusiasm so that he did not
tell her the things he had meant to tell. He had ridden over with
another nugget in his pocket--a nugget the size of an almond. He had
come to give it to Billy Louise and to tell her how and where he had
found it.

It is too bad that he changed his mind again and kept that lump of gold
in his pocket. It would have explained so much, if he had given it to
Billy Louise to put in her blue plush treasure box. It would even have
brought to life that first faith in him. She might have told him--one
never can foresee the lengths to which a woman's confessional mood will
carry her--about that corral hidden in the canyon, and of her sickening
certainty that she had seen him ride stealthily away from it. If she
had, he would have convinced her that she was mistaken, and that he had
that afternoon been washing gold a good ten miles from there, until it
was too dark for him to work.

He took the nugget