enced for the moment, he was conscious of a swift,
keen thankfulness that Pink had at the last minute decided to stay in
camp that night instead of accompanying Andy to One Man. He was in
that mood when a sentimental encounter appealed to him strongly; and a
woman's voice, singing to him from One Man cabin, promised undetermined
adventure.

He did not sing again. There had been something in the voice that held
him quiet, listening, expectant. But she also was silent after that
last, high note--like a meadow lark startled in the middle of his song,
thought Andy whimsically.

He came within sight of the cabin, squatting in the shadow of the grove
at its back. He half expected to see a light, but the window was
dark, the door closed as he had left it. He felt a faint, unreasoning
disappointment that it was so. But he had heard her. That high note that
lingered upon the word "here" still tingled his senses. His eyes sent
seeking glances here and there as he rode up.

Then a horse nickered welcomingly, and someone rode out from the deeper
shadow at the corner of the cabin, hesitated as though tempted to
flight, and came on uncertainly. They met full before the cabin, and the
woman leaned and peered through the dusk at Andy.

"Is this--Mr. Mallory--Irish?" she asked nervously. "Oh dear! Have I
gone and made a fool of myself again?"

"Not at all! Good evening, Miss Allen." Andy folded his hands upon the
saddle horn and regarded her with a little smile, Keen for what might
come next.

"But you're not Irish Mallory. I thought I recognized the voice, or I
wouldn't have--" She urged her horse a step closer, and Andy observed
from her manner that she was not accustomed to horses. She reined as if
she were driving, so that the horse, bewildered, came sidling up to him.
"Who are you?" she asked him sharply.

"Me? Why, I'm a nice young man--a lot better singer than Irish. I guess
you never heard him, did you?" He kept his hands folded on the horn, his
whole attitude passive--a restful, reassuring passivity that lulled her
uneasiness more than words could have done.

"Oh, are you Andy Green? I seem to connect that name with your
voice--and what little I can see of you."

"That's something, anyway." Andy's tone was one of gratitude. "It's two
per cent. better than having to tell you right out who I am. I met you
three different times, Miss Allen," he reproached.

"But always in a crowd," she defended, "and I never talked wit