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“Kitty,” I said severely, “there are rattlesnakes among those rocks.”

“Are there?” she answered serenely. “But I wasn’t looking for rattlesnakes, you know. See what lovely things I did find! I’ve got the ‘prospecting’ fever already.”

She had filled her pockets with specimens of obsidian, jaspers, and chalcedonies, of colors most beautiful, with a deep-dyed opaqueness, a shell-fracture, and a satiny polish like jade. And she consulted us about them very prettily–the little fraud! Of course she was instantly forgiven.

But I notice that since our arrival at Broadlands, Harshaw has not troubled her with his attentions. They might be the most indifferent strangers, for all that his manner implies. And if she is not pleased with the change, she ought to be, for she has made her wishes plain.

II

Camp at the Thousand Springs. A little grass peninsula running out between the river and a narrow lagoon, a part of Decker’s ranch, two miles by water below the Springs and half a mile from Decker’s Ferry, set all about with a hedge of rose, willow, and wild-currant bushes, sword-grass, and tall reeds,–the grasses enormous, like Japanese decorations,–crossing the darks of the opposite shore and the lights of the river and sky. Our tents are pitched, our blankets spread in the sun, our wagon is soaking its tired feet in the river. Tom and Harshaw are up-stream somewhere, fishing for supper. Billings is bargaining with Old Man Decker for the “keep” of his team. Kitty and I are enjoying ourselves. There is a rip in one of the back seams of my jacket, Kitty tells me, but even that cannot move me.

I say we are enjoying ourselves; but my young guest has developed a new mood of late which gives poignancy to my growing tenderness for the girl. She has kept up wonderfully, with the aid of her bit of a temper, for which I like her none the less. How she will stand this idleness, monotony, and intimacy, with the accent of beauty pressing home, I cannot say. I rather fear for her.

The screws have been tightened on her lately by something that befell at the Harshaw ranch. Our road lay past the place, and Harshaw had to stop for his surveying instruments, also to pack a bag, he said,–with apologies for keeping us waiting.

I think we were all a little nervous as we neared the house. Very few women could have spelled the word “home” out of those rough masculine premises. I wondered if Kitty was not offering up a prayer of thanksgiving for the life she had been delivered from.

Harshaw jumped down, and, stooping under the wire fence, ran across the alfalfa stubble to the house as fast as he could for the welcome of a beautiful young setter dog–Maisie he called her–that came wildly out to meet him. A woman–not a nice-looking woman–stood at the door and watched him, and even at our distance from them there was something strange in their recognition.

Kitty began to talk and laugh with forced coolness. Tom turned the horses sharply, so that the wagon’s shadow lay on the roadside, away from the house. “Get out, hadn’t you better?” he suggested, in the tone of a command. We got out, and Kitty asked for her sketching-bag.

“Kitty,” I whispered, pointing to the house, “draw that, and send it to your mother. She will never ask again why you didn’t care to live there.”

“That has nothing to do with it,” she retorted coldly. “I would have lived there, or anywhere, with the right person.”

There was no such person. I couldn’t help saying it.

She is very handsome when she looks down, proud and a trifle sullen when you “touch her on the raw,” as the men say.

“But there is such a person, Kitty,” I ventured. I had ventured, it seemed, too far.

“You are my hostess. Your house is my only home. Don’t be his accomplice!” I thought it rather well said.