h away from him into the depths of her shadowy forest.

Having no desire to be seen just then, Conniston sat very still. The
other boys were breakfasting within the bunk-house. He had hurried
with his meal, and now was washing a pair of socks. He had no wish to
have her see him doing this sort of work. He moved slightly so that
the little clump of willows near the spring stood like a screen
between them.

He remembered suddenly that he had not had a shave for four days.

Rawhide Jones, Toothy, and Brayley came out of the bunk-house
together. They all saw her and as one man lifted their broad-brimmed
hats. She called to Brayley, and as the others went down to the stable
he walked, lurching, to her. Conniston could not hear what she was
saying, but Brayley's heavier voice came to him distinctly. The girl
was asking something, and Brayley after a moment's thought agreed to
her request. She turned, smiling at him and thanking him, and went
back through the trees toward the house. The big foreman came back to
the bunk-house. Conniston, his socks washed and now dripping, turned
away from the stream and came to the clothes-line running from the
corner of the low building to a tree sixty feet away.

"Hey, you, Conniston," Brayley called to him. "You're jest the man I'm
lookin' for. Saddle Dandy for Miss Argyl an' take him up to the house
for her. An' take your own hoss along. She wants you to go with her."

Conniston flushed up, suddenly rebellious. He had not gone to work to
be a lacky to Miss Argyl. He had no desire to lead her horse up to the
house for her that she might swing into her saddle, leaving him to
follow her at due and respectful distance like a groom. Why had she
singled him out from the others to go with her, to play the part of
the menial at her orders? Was it simply so that she, a Crawford, the
daughter of a man who for all that Conniston knew to the contrary had
never been out of this little corner of the West and was in the
beginning a nobody, might say in the future that she had been served
by a Conniston, by the son of William Conniston, of Wall
Street--boasting of it? If she crooked her finger must he run to do
her bidding because her father was taking advantage of his temporary
exile to have him work for him at a dollar a day?

"Well?" snapped Brayley, as Conniston stood frowning, making no
answer, "Did you think I said she wanted you to-morrow?"

For a moment Conniston hesitated. Then, scarcely k