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She only shook herself disdainfully. “I’m all right,” she said; “but YOU, Mad Wayne, what do you mean by not speaking to me–not knowing me? You can’t say that I’ve changed like that.” She passed her hand down her long dripping braids as if to press the water from them, and yet with a half-coquettish suggestion in the act.

Something struggled up into the man’s face which was not there before. There was a new light in his grave eyes. “You look the same,” he said slowly; “but you are married–you have a husband.”

“You think that changes a girl?” she said, with a laugh “That’s where all you men slip up! You’re afraid of his rifle–THAT’S the change that bothers you, Mad.”

“You know I care little for carnal weapons,” he said quietly. She DID know it; but it is the privilege of the sex to invent its facts and then to graciously abandon them as if they were only arguments. “Then why do you keep off from me? Why do you look the other way when I pass?” she said quickly.

“Because you are married,” he said slowly.

She again shook the water from her like a Newfoundland dog. “That’s it. You’re mad because I got married. You’re mad because I wouldn’t marry you and your church over on the cross roads, and sing hymns with you and become SISTER Wayne. You wanted me to give up dancing and buggy ridin’ Sundays–and you’re just mad because I didn’t. Yes, mad–just mean, baby mad, Mr. Maddy Wayne, for all your CHRISTIAN resignation! That’s what’s the matter with you.” Yet she looked very pretty and piquant in her small spitefulness, which was still so general and superficial that she seemed to shake it out of her wet petticoats in a vicious flap that disclosed her neat ankles.

“You preferred McGee to me,” he said grimly. “I didn’t blame you.”

“Who said I PREFERRED him?” she retorted quickly. “Much you know!” Then, with swift feminine abandonment of her position, she added, with a little laugh, “It’s all the same whether you’re guarded with a rifle or a Church Presbytery, only”–

“Only what?” said Madison earnestly.

“There’s men who’d risk being SHOT for a girl, that couldn’t stand psalm-singin’ palaver.”

The quick expression of pain that passed over his hard, dark face seemed only to heighten her pretty mischievousness. But he simply glanced again around the solitude, passed his hand over his wet sleeve, and said, “I must go now; your husband wouldn’t like me being here.”

“He’s workin’ in the claim,–the claim YOU gave him,” said Mrs. McGee, with cheerful malice. “Wonder what he’d say if he knew it was given to him by the man who used to spark his wife only two years ago? How does that suit your Christian conscience, Mad?”

“I should have told him, had I not believed that everything was over between us, or that it was possible that you and me should ever meet again,” he returned, in a tone so measured that the girl seemed to hear the ring of the conventicle in it.

“Should you, BROTHER Wayne?” she said, imitating him. “Well, let me tell you that you are the one man on the Bar that Sandy has taken a fancy to.”

Madison’s sallow cheek colored a little, but he did not speak.

“Well!” continued Mrs. McGee impatiently. “I don’t believe he’d object to your comin’ here to see me–if you cared.”

“But I wouldn’t care to come, unless he first knew that I had been once engaged to you,” said Madison gravely.

“Perhaps he might not think as much of that as you do,” retorted the woman pertly. “Every one isn’t as straitlaced as you, and every girl has had one or two engagements. But do as you like–stay at home if you want to, and sing psalms and read the Scriptures to that younger brother of yours! All the same, I’m thinkin’ he’d rather be out with the boys.”