you know,
Miss Montana. And you ought to pardon me the attempt."

Her face was flushed and shamed. "I could pardon a great deal in you,
Max," she answered; "but don't speak of it again. Talk to me of other
things."

"Other things? Well, I haven't many other things in my mind just now.
Still, I did see some one down town this morning whom you rather liked,
and who asked after you. It was Mr. Harvey, the writer, whom we met first
at Bonner's Ferry, up in the Kootenai land. Do you remember him?"

"Certainly. We met him afterward at one of the art galleries, and I have
seen him several times at Roden's studio. They are great friends. He
looked surprised to find me there, but, after I spoke to him, he talked to
me a great deal. You know, Max, I always imagine he heard that suspicion
of me up at the camp. Do you think so?"

"He never intimated it to me," answered Max; "though Haydon nearly went
into spasms of fear lest he would put it all in some paper."

"I remember. He would scarcely allow me breathing space for fear the
stranger would get near enough to speak to me again. I remember all that
journey, because when I reached the end of it, the past seemed like a
troubled dream, for this life of fineness and beauty and leisure was all
so different."

"And yet you are not contented?"

"Oh, don't talk of that--of me!" she begged. "I am tired of myself. I just
remembered another one on the train that journey--the little variety
actress who had her dresses made to look cute and babyish--the one with
bleached hair, and they called her Goldie. She looked scared to death when
he--Overton--stopped at the window to say good-by. I often wondered why."

"Oh, you know Dan was a sort of sheriff, or law-and-order man, up there.
He might have known her unfavorably, and she was afraid of being
identified by him, or something of that sort. She belonged to the rougher
element, no doubt."

"Max, it makes me homesick to think of that country," she confessed. "Ever
since the grass has commenced to be green, and the buds to swell, it seems
to me all the woods are calling me. All the sluggish water I see here in
the parks and the rivers makes me dream of the rush of the clear Kootenai,
and long for a canoe and paddle. Contrive something to make me forget
it, won't you? Make up a party to go somewhere--anywhere. I will be
cavalier to your lovely little aunt, and leave you to Margaret."

"I asked you before why you speak of Margaret and m