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It was a Sabbath morning in early spring that he was returning from an ineffectual attempt to enlist a capitalist at the county town to redeem the fortunes of Blazing Star. He was pondering over the narrowness of that capitalist, who had evidently but illogically connected Cass’s present appearance with the future of that struggling camp, when he became so foot-sore that he was obliged to accept a “lift” from a wayfaring teamster. As the slowly lumbering vehicle passed the new church on the outskirts of the town, the congregation were sallying forth. It was too late to jump down and run away, and Cass dared not ask his new-found friend to whip up his cattle. Conscious of his unshorn beard and ragged garments, he kept his eyes fixed upon the road. A voice that thrilled him called his name. It was Miss Porter, a resplendent vision of silk, laces, and Easter flowers–yet actually running, with something of her old dash and freedom, beside the wagon. As the astonished teamster drew up before this elegant apparition, she panted:–

“Why did you make me run so far, and why didn’t you look up?”

Cass, trying to hide the patches on his knees beneath a newspaper, stammered that he had not seen her.

“And you did not hold down your head purposely?”

“No,” said Cass.

“Why have you not been to Red Chief? Why didn’t you answer my message about the ring?” she asked, swiftly.

“You sent nothing but the ring,” said Cass, coloring, as he glanced at the teamster.

“Why, THAT was a message, you born idiot.”

Cass stared. The teamster smiled. Miss Porter gazed anxiously at the wagon. “I think I’d like a ride in there; it looks awfully good.” She glanced mischievously around at the lingering and curious congregation.

“May I?”

But Cass deprecated that proceeding strongly. It was dirty; he was not sure it was even WHOLESOME; she would be SO uncomfortable; he, himself, was only going a few rods farther, and in that time she might ruin her dress–

“Oh, yes,” she said, a little bitterly, “certainly, my dress must be looked after. And–what else?”

“People might think it strange, and believe I had invited you,” continued Cass, hesitatingly.

“When I had only invited myself? Thank you. Good-by.”

She waved her hand and stepped back from the wagon. Cass would have given worlds to recall her, but he sat still, and the vehicle moved on in moody silence. At the first cross road he jumped down. “Thank you,” he said to the teamster. “You’re welcome,” returned that gentleman, regarding him curiously, “but the next time a gal like that asks to ride in this yer wagon, I reckon I won’t take the vote of any deadhead passenger. Adios, young fellow. Don’t stay out late; ye might be run off by some gal, and what would your mother say?” Of course the young man could only look unutterable things and walk away, but even in that dignified action he was conscious that its effect was somewhat mitigated by a large patch from a material originally used as a flour sack, which had repaired his trousers, but still bore the ironical legend, “Best Superfine.”

The summer brought warmth and promise and some blossom, if not absolute fruition, to Blazing Star. The long days drew Nature into closer communion with the men, and hopefulness followed the discontent of their winter seclusion. It was easier, too, for Capital to be wooed and won into making a picnic in these mountain solitudes than when high water stayed the fords and drifting snow the Sierran trails. At the close of one of these Arcadian days Cass was smoking before the door of his lonely cabin when he was astounded by the onset of a dozen of his companions. Peter Drummond, far in the van, was waving a newspaper like a victorious banner. “All’s right now, Cass, old man!” he panted as he stopped before Cass and shoved back his eager followers.