come in at long intervals and in small quantities. And as she
worked she sang, wild, wordless melodies in a natural voice as rich as
a harp. That voice of Tharon's was one of the wonders of Lost Valley.
Many a rider went by that way on the chance that he might catch its
golden music adrift on the breeze, her father's men came up at night
to hear its martial stir, its tenderness, for the voice was the girl,
and Tharon was an unknown quantity, sometimes all melting sweetness,
sometimes fire that flashed and was still.

So on this day she sang, since she was happy. Why, she did not know.
Perhaps it was because of the six new puppies in the milk-house,
rolling in awkward fatness against their shepherd mother, whose soft
eyes beamed up at the girl in beautiful pride. Perhaps it was because
of the springtime in the air.

At any rate she worked with all the will and pleasure of youth in a
congenial task, and the roses of health bloomed in her cheeks. The
sun itself shone in her tawny hair where the curls made waves and
ripples, the blue skies of Lost Valley were faithfully reflected in
her eyes.

Her skin was soft-golden, the enchanting skin of some half-blonds
which can never be duplicated by all the arts of earth, and her full
mouth was scarlet as pomegranates.

Sometimes old Anita who had raised her, would stop and look at her in
wonder, so beautiful was she to old and faithful eyes.

And not alone to Anita was she entirely lovely.

There was not a full grown man in Lost Valley who would not go many a
mile to look upon her--with varying desires. Few voiced their
longings, however, for Jim Last was notorious with his guns and could
protect his daughter. He had protected her for twenty years, come full
summer, and he asked no odds of any. His eyes were like Tharon's--blue
and changing, with odd little lines that crinkled about them at the
corners, elongating them in appearance. He was a big man, vital and
quiet. The girl took her stature from him. Her flashes of fire came
from her mother, of whom she knew little and of whom Jim Last said
nothing. Once as a child she had asked him, after the manner of
children, about this mother of dim memories, and his eyes had hazed
with a look of suffering that scared her, he had struck his palm upon
a table, and said only:

"She was an angel straight out of Heaven. Don't ask me again."

So Tharon had not asked again, though she had wondered much.

Sometimes old Anita, become ga