a gentleman by birth, worth a
dozen Verinders.

"Mr. Kilmeny, how can we ever thank you?"

He looked at her and nodded gayly. "Forget it, Miss Seldon. I couldn't
have done less."

"Or more," she added softly, her lovely eyes in his.

No change showed in the lean brown face of the man, but his blood moved
faster. It was impossible to miss the appeal of sex that escaped at
every graceful movement of the soft sensuous body, that glowed from the
deep still eyes in an electric current flashing straight to his veins.
He would have loved to touch the soft flushed cheek, the crisp amber
hair clouding the convolutions of the little ears. His eyes were an
index of the man, bold and possessive and unwavering. They announced him
a dynamic American, one who walked the way of the strong and fought for
his share of the spoils. But when she looked at him they softened.
Something fine and tender transfigured the face and wiped out its
sardonic recklessness.

"The pressing question before the house is breakfast. There are bacon
and flour and coffee here. Shall I make a batch of biscuits and offer
you pot luck? Or do you prefer to wait till we can get to Goldbanks?"

"What do you think?" Moya asked.

"I think whatever you think. We'll not reach town much before noon. If
you can rough it for a meal I should advise trying out the new cook. It
really depends on how hungry you are."

"I'm hungry enough to eat my boots," the Irish girl announced promptly.

"So am I. Let's stay--if our hosts won't object," Joyce added.

"I'm quite sure they won't," Kilmeny replied dryly. "All right. A camp
breakfast it is."

"I'm going to help you," Moya told him.

"Of course. You'd better wash the dishes as soon as we get hot water.
They're probably pretty grimy."

He stepped into the cabin and took off his coat. Moya rolled up her
sleeves to the elbows of her plump dimpled arms. Miss Seldon hovered
about helplessly and wanted to know what she could do.

The miner had not "batched" in the hills for years without having
learned how to cook. His biscuits came to the table hot and flaky, his
bacon was done to a turn. Even the chicory coffee tasted delicious to
the hungry guests.

With her milk-white skin, her vivid crimson lips so exquisitely turned,
and the superb vitality of her youth, Joyce bloomed in the sordid hut
like a flower in a rubbage heap. To her bronzed _vis-a-vis_ it seemed
that the world this morning was shimmering romance. Never