ed up above the knees, the
young washwoman was trampling blankets in the tub. She had no reason to
suppose that anybody was within a mile of her. Wherefore, since the world
was beautiful and mere life a joy, she improvised a child's song of
thanksgiving.

It was a foolish little thing without rhyme or reason. It began nowhere
and finished at the same place. But it lifted straight from the heart and
perhaps it traveled as far heavenward as most prayers. She danced among
the suds as she sang it, brown arms, bare to the elbows, stretched to the
sunlit hills.

Wings--wings--wings!
I can fly, 'way 'way 'way off,
Over the creek, over the pinons.
Goodness, yes! Like a meadow-lark.
Over the hills, clear to Denver,
Where the trains are.
And it's lovely--lovely--lovely.

It was an unschooled, impulsive cry of the heart to the great soul of
life and beauty that lies back of nature. No human eyes or ears were
meant to see or hear the outburst. A shy girl's first day-dreams of her
lover ought no more to be dragged out to the public gaze than this.

Through the quaking asps by the creek narrowed eyes gloated. Out of the
thicket Jake Houck strode with a ribald laugh.

"Right pretty, my dear, but don't you spread them wings an' leave yore
man alone."

The dancing spirit fled her flying feet. She was no longer a daughter of
the skies, attuned to sunshine and laughter and the golden harmony of the
hills. Joy and life were stricken out of her.

He had heard. He had seen. A poignant shame enveloped and scorched the
girl's body. She was a wild thing who lived within herself. It was easy
to put her in the wrong. She felt the mortification of one who has been
caught in some indecent exhibition.

The humiliation was at first for the song and dance. Not till another
moment did she think of the bare legs rising out of the soapsuds. His
smouldering gaze brought them to mind.

Instantly she leaped from the tub, shook down the skirts, snatched up
shoes and stockings, and fled barefooted to the house. A brogan dropped a
few steps from the start. She stopped, as though to pick it up. But Houck
was following. The girl turned and ran like a deer.

Houck retrieved the brogan and followed slowly. He smiled. His close-set
eyes were gleaming. This was an adventure just to his taste.

The door of the cabin was bolted. He knocked.

"Here's yore shoe, sweetheart," he called.

No answer came. He tried the back doo