t of the hill she
would write the first page of the book. It was for this purpose that
she had now come.

After seating herself she opened a small handbag, producing therefrom
many sheets of paper, a much-thumbed copy of Shakespeare, and a pencil.
She was tempted to begin with a description of the particular bit of
country upon which she looked, for long ago she had decided upon Bear
Flat for the locale of the story. But she sat long nibbling at the end
of the pencil, delaying the beginning for fear of being unable to do
justice to it.

She began at length, making several false starts and beginning anew.
Finally came a paragraph that remained. Evidently this was
satisfactory, for another paragraph followed; and then another, and
still another. Presently a complete page. Then she looked up with a
long-drawn sigh of relief. The start had been made.

She had drawn a word picture of the flat; dwelling upon the solitude,
the desolation, the vastness, the swimming sunlight, the absence of
life and movement. But as she looked, critically comparing what she
had written with the reality, there came a movement--a horseman had
ridden into her picture. He had come down through a little gully that
led into the flat and was loping his pony through the deep saccatone
grass toward the cabin.

It couldn't be Ben. Ben had told her that he intended riding some
thirty miles down the river and he couldn't be returning already. She
leaned forward, watching intently, the story forgotten.

The rider kept steadily on for a quarter of an hour. Then he reached
the clearing in which the cabin stood; she saw him ride through it and
disappear. Five minutes later he reappeared, hesitated at the edge of
the clearing and then urged his pony toward the hill upon which she
sat. As he rode out of the shadows of the trees within an eighth of a
mile of her the sunlight shone fairly upon the pony. She would have
known Mustard among many other ponies.

She drew a sudden, deep breath and sat erect, tucking back some stray
wisps of hair from her forehead. Did the rider see her?

For a moment it seemed that the answer would be negative, for he
disappeared behind some dense shrubbery on the plain below and seemed
to be on the point of passing the hill. But just at the edge of the
shrubbery Mustard suddenly swerved and came directly toward her.
Through the corners of her eyes she watched while Ferguson dismounted,
tied Mustard close to her