see. The dark, mossy
woods were a perfect frame, the shadows seemed only to accentuate her
own bright coloring.

It wasn't simply because I am a naturalist that I instantly noticed and
stored away immutably in my memory every detail of that happy, pretty
face. The girl had blue eyes. I've seen the same shade of blue in the
sea, a dark blue and yet giving the impression of incredible brightness.
Yet it was a warm brightness, not the steely, icy glitter of the sea.
They were friendly, wholesome, straightforward eyes, lit with the joy of
living; wide-open and girlish. The brows were fine and dark above them,
and above these a clear, girlish forehead with never a studied line. Her
hair was brown and shot with gold--indeed, in the sunlight, it looked
like old, red gold, finely spun.

She was tanned by the Florida sun, yet there was a bright color-spot in
each cheek. I thought she had rather a wistful mouth, rather full lips,
half-pouting in some girlish fancy. Of course she hadn't observed me
yet. She was riding easily, evidently thinking herself wholly alone.

Her form was slender and girlish, of medium height, yet her slender
hands at the reins held her big horse in perfect control. The heels of
her trim little shoes touched his side, and the animal leaped lightly
over a fallen log. Then she saw me, and her expression changed.

It was, however, still unstudied and friendly. The cold look of
indifference I had expected and which is such a mark of ill-breeding
among certain of her class, didn't put in its appearance. I removed my
hat, and she drew her horse up beside me.

It hadn't occurred to me she would actually stop and talk. It had been
rather too much to hope for. And I knew I felt a curious little stir of
delight all over me at the first sound of her friendly, gentle voice.

"I suppose you are Mr. Killdare?" she said quietly.

Every one knows how a man quickens at the sound of his own name. "Yes,
ma'am," I told her--in our own way of speaking. But I didn't know what
else to say.

"I was riding over to see you--on business," she went on. "For my
uncle--Grover Nealman, of Kastle Krags. I'm his secretary."

The words made me stop and think. It was hard for me to explain, even to
myself, just why they thrilled me far under the skin, and why the
little tingle of delight I had known at first gave way to a mighty surge
of anticipation and pleasure. It seems to be true that the first thing
we look for in a stranger