. It means the heat of the day, but if it seems
better than motoring over a country road with a public chauffeur, I would
be glad to have you drive for me."

CHAPTER X

A WOMAN'S HEART-STRINGS

"Now I know the meaning of Wenatchee. It's something racy, Mr. Tisdale,
and a little wicked, yet with unexpected depths, and just the coolest,
limpid hazel-green."

Tisdale's pulses quickened; his blood responded to her exhilaration. "Yes,
only"--and he waited to catch the glance she lifted from the stream--"your
green is blue, and you forgot to count the sparkles in."

As he spoke, the bays paced off the bridge. They sprang, gathering
themselves lightly for a sharp ascent and for an interval held the
driver's close attention. The town and the Columbia were behind, and the
road, which followed the contour of the slopes rising abruptly from the
Wenatchee, began a series of sudden turns; it cut shelf-wise high across
the face of a ridge; spurs constantly closed after them; there seemed no
way back or through, then, like an opening gate, a bluff detached from the
wall ahead, and they entered another breadth of valley. In the wide levels
that bordered the river, young orchards began to supplant the sage.
Looking down from the thoroughfare, the even rows and squares seemed
wrought on the tawny background like the designs of a great carpet.
Sometimes, paralleling the road, the new High Line canal followed an upper
cut; it trestled a ravine or, stopped by a rocky cliff, bored through.
Where a finished spillway irrigated a mountainside, all the steep incline
between the runnels showed lines on lines of diminutive trees, pluckily
taking root-hold.

A little after that, near an old mission, they dropped to a lower bench
and passed an apple orchard in full bearing. Everywhere boughs laden with
a gold or crimson harvest were supported by a network of scaffolding. It
was marvelous that fruit could so crowd and cling to a slender stem and
yet round and color to such perfection. Miss Armitage slowed the horses
down and looked up the shady avenues. Presently a driveway divided the
tract, leading to a dwelling so small it had the appearance of a toy
house; but on the gatepost above the rural delivery box the name of the
owner shone ostentatiously. It was "Henderson Bailey, Hesperides Vale."

"Do you see?" she asked. "This is that station master's orchard, where the
Rome Beauty grew."

But the team was troublesome again. The road