er smiled. Her reference to
the Deity entirely eliminated Peter and the profession of forestry from
the pale of useful things. He was sorry that she no longer smiled
because he had decided to make friends at Black Rock and he didn't want
to make a bad beginning.

"I hope you don't mind," said Peter at last, "if I tell you that you
have one of the loveliest voices that I have ever heard."

He marked with pleasure the sudden flush of color that ran up under her
delicately freckled tan. Her lips parted and she turned to him
hesitating.

"You--you heard me!"

"I did. It was like the voice of an angel in Heaven."

"Angel! Oh! I'm sorry. I--I didn't know any one was there. I just sing
on my way home from work."

"You've been working to-day?"

She nodded. "Yes--Farmerettin'."

"Farmer----?"

"Workin' in the vineyard at Gaskill's."

"Oh, I see. Do you like it?"

"No," she said dryly. "I just do it for my health. Don't I look sick?"

Peter wasn't used to having people make fun of him. Even as a waiter he
had managed to preserve his dignity intact. But he smiled at her.

"I was wondering what had become of the men around here."

"They're so busy walkin' from one place to another to see where they can
get the highest wages, that there's no time to work in between."

"I see," said Peter, now really amused. "And does Mr. Jonathan McGuire
have difficulty in getting men to work for him?"

"Most of his hired help come from away--like you----But lately they
haven't been stayin' long."

"Why?"

She slowed her pace a little and turned to look at him curiously.

"Do you mean that you don't know the kind of a job you've got?"

"Not much," admitted Peter. "In addition to looking after the preserve,
I'm to watch after the men--and obey orders, I suppose."

"H-m. Preserve! Sorry, Mr. what's your name----"

"Peter Nichols----" put in Peter promptly.

"Well, Mr. Peter Nichols, all I have to say is that you're apt to have a
hard time."

"Yes, I'm against it!" translated Peter confidently.

The girl stopped in the middle of the road, put her hands on her hips
and laughed up at the purpling sky. Her laugh was much like her
singing--if angels in Paradise laugh (and why shouldn't they?). Then
while he wondered what was so amusing she looked at him again.

"_Up_ against it, you mean. You're English, aren't you?"

"Er--yes--I am."

"I thought so. There was one of you in the glass factory. He always
muffed the easy o