she was questioning him.

"Miss, I take that back," added Jean, shortly. "I'm sorry. I didn't
mean to be rude. It was a mean trick for me to kiss you. A girl alone
in the woods who's gone out of her way to be kind to me! I don't know
why I forgot my manners. An' I ask your pardon."

She looked away then, and presently pointed far out and down into the
Basin.

"There's Grass Valley. That long gray spot in the black. It's about
fifteen miles. Ride along the Rim that way till y'u cross a trail.
Shore y'u can't miss it. Then go down."

"I'm much obliged to you," replied Jean, reluctantly accepting what he
regarded as his dismissal. Turning his horse, he put his foot in the
stirrup, then, hesitating, he looked across the saddle at the girl. Her
abstraction, as she gazed away over the purple depths suggested
loneliness and wistfulness. She was not thinking of that scene spread
so wondrously before her. It struck Jean she might be pondering a
subtle change in his feeling and attitude, something he was conscious
of, yet could not define.

"Reckon this is good-by," he said, with hesitation.

"ADIOS, SENOR," she replied, facing him again. She lifted the little
carbine to the hollow of her elbow and, half turning, appeared ready to
depart.

"Adios means good-by?" he queried.

"Yes, good-by till to-morrow or good-by forever. Take it as y'u like."

"Then you'll meet me here day after to-morrow?" How eagerly he spoke,
on impulse, without a consideration of the intangible thing that had
changed him!

"Did I say I wouldn't?"

"No. But I reckoned you'd not care to after--" he replied, breaking
off in some confusion.

"Shore I'll be glad to meet y'u. Day after to-morrow about
mid-afternoon. Right heah. Fetch all the news from Grass Valley."

"All right. Thanks. That'll be--fine," replied Jean, and as he spoke
he experienced a buoyant thrill, a pleasant lightness of enthusiasm,
such as always stirred boyishly in him at a prospect of adventure.
Before it passed he wondered at it and felt unsure of himself. He
needed to think.

"Stranger shore I'm not recollectin' that y'u told me who y'u are," she
said.

"No, reckon I didn't tell," he returned. "What difference does that
make? I said I didn't care who or what you are. Can't you feel the
same about me?"

"Shore--I felt that way," she replied, somewhat non-plussed, with the
level brown gaze steadily on his face. "But now y'u make me think."