was short, and her ankles showed.
In spite of the strong boots she wore they were alert, delicate, and
shapely, and all her beauty had the slender fullness of a quail.

When she saw Dyck, she stopped suddenly, her mouth slightly open. She
gave him a sidelong glance of wonder, interest, and speculation. Then
she threw her head slightly back, and all the curls gathered in a bunch
and shook like bronze flowers. It was a head of grace and power, of
charm and allurement--of danger.

Dyck was lost in admiration. He looked at her as one might look at a
beautiful thing in a dream. He did not speak; he only smiled as he gazed
into her eyes. She was the first to speak.

"Well, who are you?" she asked with a slightly southern accent in her
voice, delicate and entrancing. Her head gave a little modest toss, her
fine white teeth caught her lower lip with a little quirk of humour;
for she could see that he was a gentleman, and that she was safe from
anything that might trouble her.

He replied to her question with the words:

"My name? Why, it's Dyck Calhoun. That's all."

Her eyes brightened. "Isn't that enough?" she asked gently.

She knew of his family. She was only visiting in the district with her
mother, but she had lately heard of old Miles Calhoun and his wayward
boy, Dyck; and here was Dyck, with a humour in his eyes and a touch of
melancholy at his lips. Somehow her heart went out to him.

Presently he said to her: "And what's your name?"

"I'm only Sheila Llyn, the daughter of my mother, a widow, visiting at
Loyland Towers. Yes, I'm only Sheila!"

She laughed.

"Well, just be 'only Sheila,"' he answered admiringly, and he held out a
hand to her. "I wouldn't have you be anything else, though it's none of
my business."

For one swift instant she hesitated; then she laid her hand in his.

"There's no reason why we should not," she said. "Your father's
respectable."

She looked at him again with a sidelong glance, and with a whimsical,
reserved smile at her lips.

"Yes, he's respectable, I agree, but he's dull," answered Dyck. "For an
Irishman, he's dull--and he's a tyrant, too. I suppose I deserve that,
for I'm a handful."

"I think you are, and a big handful too!"

"Which way are you going?" he asked presently.

"And you?"

"Oh, I'm bound for home." He pointed across the valley. "Do you see that
smoke coming up from the plantation over there?"

"Yes, I know," she answered. "I know. That's Playmore,