felt, to keep from
pouring out a thousand questions. But the privilege of having seen her,
of having been with her when she had forgotten herself--that he believed
was enough. It had been wonderful; it had made him love her But it
need not add to the tragedy of her life, whatever that was. He tried to
eliminate himself. And he watched her.

Her eyes were fixed upon the gold-rimmed ramparts of the distant wall in
the west. Plain it was how she loved that wild upland. And there seemed
to be some haunting memory of the past in her gaze--some happy part of
life, agonizing to think of now.

"We must go," she said, and rose.

Shefford rose to accompany her. She looked at him, and her haunting eyes
seemed to want him to know that he had helped her to forget the present,
to remember girlhood, and that somehow she would always associate a
wonderful happy afternoon with him. He divined that her silence then was
a Mormon seal on lips.

"Mary, this has been the happiest, the best, the most revealing day of
my life," he said, simply.

Swiftly, as if startled, she turned and faced down the slope. At the top
of the wall above the village she put on the dark hood, and with it that
somber something which was Mormon.

Twilight had descended into the valley, and shadows were so thick
Shefford had difficulty in finding Mary's bucket. He filled it at the
spring, and made offer to carry it home for her, which she declined.

"You'll come to-night--later?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied, hurriedly promising. Then he watched her white form
slowly glide down the path to disappear in the shadows.

Nas Ta Bega and Joe were busy at the camp-fire. Shefford joined them.
This night he was uncommunicative. Joe peered curiously at him in
the flare of the blaze. Later, after the meal, when Shefford appeared
restless and strode to and fro, Joe spoke up gruffly:

"Better hang round camp to-night."

Shefford heard, but did not heed. Nevertheless, the purport of the
remark, which was either jealousy or admonition, haunted him with the
possibility of its meaning.

He walked away from the camp-fire, under the dark pinyons, out into the
starry open; and every step was hard to take, unless it pointed toward
the home of the girl whose beauty and sadness and mystery had bewitched
him. After what seemed hours he took the well-known path toward her
cabin, and then every step seemed lighter. He divined he was rushing to
some fate--he knew not what.

T