f his chair, and telling him to run along.

It was too much to ask her not to suspect him, now that he was
determined not to be cast down by business troubles. She had buoyed him
with her sympathy, and it was natural that she should resent his notice
of the young woman, if not his good humor. But after a lowly wallow in
melancholy, a sudden rise of spirits is always viewed with suspicion by
a woman. It is one of the sentimental complexities, of her nature. She
looked at him with eyes that might never have been soft. No doubt there
was in George's breast a strong cast of the rascal. He was not a stepson
of old Adam, but a full blood. He knew, however, the proper recourse,
and he took it. He began to fret over his vanished business, and,
forgetting the "peach," she gave him her sympathy.

Milford, meanwhile, was slowly striding up and down the veranda. Mrs.
Stuvic came out, followed by the Norwegian.

"She didn't want to meet you, Bill, but here she is."

That was the introduction, an embarrassment that fed the old woman's
notion of fun. Milford stammered, and the young woman blushed.

"I did not say I did not want to meet you," she said, with a slight
accent, her unidiomatic English learned at school. "I would not say such
a thing. Mrs. Stuvic is full of jokes. She makes me laugh." And she did
laugh, strange echo from North Sea cliffs, the glow of the midnight in
her eyes, a thought that shot through the cowboy's mind as he gazed upon
her. Mrs. Stuvic went back, laughing, to the dining-room, having flushed
the young woman and turned the dark man red.

"She is a very funny woman," said the "peach," looking far across the
meadow toward the lake, her long lashes slowly rising and falling. She
was not beautiful; her features were not regular, but there was a
marvelous light in her countenance, and her bronze-tinted hair was as
rank in growth as the yellowing oats where the soil is rich and damp.
She looked to be just ripe, but was too lithe to be luscious. Mrs.
Blakemore said that her nose was slightly tipped up, a remark more
slanderous than true, and when taken to task by an oldish woman who had
no cause to be jealous, declared that it was not a matter of taste but a
question of observation. At any rate, she had come as a yellow flash,
and must soon fade.

Milford continued to gaze at her, wanting to say something, but not
knowing what to say. He heard the gruff laughter of the men in the
dining-room, joking with Mr