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When he realized this, he took off his cap, and she inclined her head, barely acknowledging his salute.

“I am Mr. Elliott’s daughter,” she said; “you are Mr. Burleson?”

Burleson had the honor of presenting himself, cap in hand.

“I am my father’s deputy,” said the girl, quietly, gathering her bridle and wheeling her horse. “I read your note. Have you reason to believe that an attempt has been made to fire the Owl Vlaie?”

There was a ring of business in her voice that struck him as amusingly delightful–and such a sweet, clear voice, too, untinged with the slightest taint of native accent.

“Yes,” said Burleson, gravely, “I’m afraid that somebody tried to burn the vlaie. I think that a change in the wind alone saved us from a bad fire.”

“Shall we ride over?” inquired the girl, moving forward with unconscious grace.

Burleson ranged his big horse alongside; she set her mount at a gallop, and away they went, wheeling into the swale, knee-deep in dry, silvery grasses, until the deputy fire-warden drew bridle with a side-flung caution: “Muskrats! Look out for a cropper!”

Now, at a walk, the horses moved forward side by side through the pale, glistening sea of grass stretching out on every side.

Over a hidden pond a huge heron stood guard, stiff and shapeless as a weather-beaten stake. Blackbirds with crimson-slashed shoulders rose in clouds from the reeds, only to settle again as they passed amid a ceaseless chorus of harsh protest. Once a pair of summer duck came speeding overhead, and Burleson, looking up, exclaimed:

“There’s a bird I never shoot at. It’s too beautiful.”

The girl turned her head, serious gray eyes questioning his.

“Have you ever seen a wood-duck?–a drake? in full plumage?” he asked.

“Often–before Mr. Grier came.”

Burleson fell silent, restless in his saddle, then said:

“I hope you will see many wood-duck now. My boats on Spirit Water are always at Mr. Elliott’s disposal–and at yours.”

She made the slightest sign of acknowledgment, but said nothing. Once or twice she rose upright, standing straight in her stirrups to scan the distance under a small, inverted hand. East and north the pine forest girdled the vlaie; west and south hardwood timber laced the sky-line with branches partly naked, and the pine’s outposts of white birch and willow glimmered like mounds of crumpled gold along the edges of the sea of grass.

“There is the stream!” said Burleson, suddenly.

At dinner, her father coming in on crutches, stared at his daughter–stared as though the apparition of his dead wife had risen to guide him to his chair; and his daughter laughed across the little table–she scarcely knew why–laughed at his surprise, at his little tribute to her beauty–laughed with the quick tears brimming in her eyes.

Then, after a silence, and thinking of her mother, she spoke of Burleson; and after a while of the coming journey, and their new luck which had come up with the new moon in September–a luck which had brought a purchaser for the mare, another for the land–all of it, swamp, timber, barrens–every rod, house, barn, garden, and stock.

Again leaning her bare elbows on the cloth, she asked her father who the man could be that desired such property. But her father shook his head, repeating the name, which was, I believe, Smith. And that, including the check, was all they had ever learned of this investor who had wanted what they did not want, in the nick of time.

“If he thinks there is gas or oil here he is to be pitied,” said her father. “I wrote him and warned him.”

“I think he replied that he knew his own business,” said the girl.

“I hope he does; the price is excessive–out of all reason. I trust he knows of something in the land that may justify his investment.”

After a moment she said, “Do you really think we may be able to buy a little place in Florida–a few orange-trees and a house?”