on to the foothills was abandoned, but he and
Clyde rode almost daily. He had reserved his little gray mare, Dolly,
for her use, and she was becoming, if not expert, at least confident in
the saddle.

She grew to love the long evenings, the soft twilights, the warm, sweet
scent of the grasses, and the great stillness broken only by an
occasional word and the beat of willing hoofs. On these evening rides
she allowed her imagination to run riot. It pleased her to pretend that
she and Casey were the only inhabitants of the land--an Eve and Adam of
the West, pioneers of a remote civilization. All day she looked forward
to this hour or two; at night, in her bed, she lived them over,
recreating each mile, each word, each little thing--how the great owl
had sailed ghostly across their path, the gray shape of a coyote fading
into the dusk, the young broods of grouse hiding in the grass.

Occasionally she undertook to analyze her feelings toward Casey Dunne,
but the result was indefinite. She enjoyed his companionship, looked
forward to it, remembered his words, his tricks of manner and speech.
But these things, she told herself, were not conclusive.

His sentiments she had no means of judging. He was forever doing little
things to please her; but then he did as much for others. At times he
was confidential; but he seldom talked of himself, his confidences
taking the form of allowing her to share his private viewpoint,
revealing to some extent his mental processes. But he had never said
one word which indicated more than friendship. Clyde saw little of
Sheila McCrae. The latter had ridden over once or twice to see, as she
said, how Casey was treating them. On these occasions Clyde experienced
a recurrence of latent hostility. Sheila took no pains whatever with
her appearance. She came in a worn riding costume, plain, serviceable,
workmanlike; and she talked water and crops and stock with Casey and
McHale, avoiding more feminine topics. If there was any understanding
between her and Casey it did not appear to Clyde. But it was this
unreasoning hostility more than anything else which made Clyde doubt
herself. Was it, she wondered, in reality jealousy?

She put the thought from her indignantly, but it refused to be
banished. She even catalogued her attractions, comparing them with the
other girl's. The balance was in her favour; but in the end she felt
ashamed of herself. Why should she do this? She found no satisfactory
reply.