th girls subjected him to a frank and
careful scrutiny that in any other place than Lost Valley would have
been rudeness itself.

Here it catalogued the stranger, set the style of his welcome.

It left him stripped of surprise, outwardly, before he was within
speaking distance.

It told the observers that he was young, of some twenty-six or seven,
that his face, the first point taken in with lightning swiftness--was
different from most faces they had ever seen, that it was open,
smiling, easy, that he was straight as a ramrod, indeed, that he rode
as if he feared nothing in the earth or the heavens, that he carried
no gun, that he wore the peculiar uniform that Tharon had noticed
before, and that there was something on his breast, a dark shield of
some sort which made them think of Steptoe Service and his disgraced
sheriff's star. This thought brought a frown to Tharon's brows, and it
was there to greet the stranger when he rode up to the step and
halted, his smart tan hat in his hand. The morning sun burned warmly
down on his dark hair, which was brushed straight back from his
forehead in a way unknown in those parts. His dark eyes, slow and deep
but somehow merry, took in the pretty picture in the door.

"Miss Last?" he asked in a low voice.

"Yes," said Tharon promptly and waited.

Every one waited in Lost Valley for a stranger to make known his
business. Paula drew back behind her mistress.

The man sat still on his horse and waited, too. The silence became
profound. The hens cackling about the barns intruded sharply.

"Well," he said presently, "I am a stranger, and I came to see you."

The girl in the doorway felt a hot surge of discomfort flare over her
for the first time in her life for such a reason.

There was something in the low voice that implied a lack, accused her
of something. She resented it instantly.

"If that is so," she said slowly, "light."

The man laughed delightedly, and swung quickly down, dropping his
rein. Tharon noticed that. That much was natural. He held his hat
against his breast with one hand and came forward with the same
quickness, holding out the other. Tharon was not used to shaking
hands with strange men. She gave her hand diffidently, because he so
evidently expected it, and took it away swiftly.

"My name," he said, "is Kenset--David Kenset, and I am from
Washington, D. C."

He might as well have said Timbuctoo. Tharon Last knew little outside
her own environment