Part 16 (2/2)

She went up to him unfalteringly.

”I have put myself on honor while Mrs. Kingdon is away,” she said gravely.

”I will try hard to do as you want me to do, but it will be easier for me if you will trust me.”

Her eyes looked out so very straight, with none of the worldly wisdom he had seen in them the day she had been transferred to his guardians.h.i.+p, that he found himself incapable of harboring any further doubt of her sincerity.

”I will,” he said staunchly; ”I will trust you as she does.”

They sat together in the moonlight without further converse and in the reposeful silence a mutual understanding was born.

Presently she went inside and played some old-time airs on the piano with the caressing, lingering touch of those who play by ear.

”Where did you learn to play?” he asked wonderingly.

She looked up, slightly startled. She hadn't heard him come in and her thoughts had been far away from Top Hill.

”I never did learn,” she said, rising from the piano. ”I play by ear. I see it is late. I must go upstairs. Good night, Mr. Walters.”

”Good night, Pen,” he said kindly.

He returned to the porch and pipe and lost himself in a haze of dreams--such dreams as had been wont to come to him in his younger days when he had been a cow-puncher pure and simple. Gathered about a roaring camp fire that lighted up the rough and boisterous faces of his companions, he had seemed as one of them, but later when they had gone to well-earned slumber and it had been his turn to guard the long lines of cattle in the cool of the cottonwoods, he had used to gaze into the mysteries of a desert moon slowly drifting through a cerulean sky and dream a boy's dream of the woman who was to come to him.

As he grew older and came more into contact with the world, he was brought to an overwhelming realization that the woman of his dreams did not exist.

The knowledge made an ache in his heart, but to-night he was again longing with the primary instinct that would not be killed,--longing for the One.

Pen went to bed and to sleep. The next day she was a perfect model of a young housewife. She helped the children with their little lessons, filled all the vases, trained some vines, and then with some needlework went out on the veranda. At the table she listened and responded interestedly to Mrs. Merlin's bromidic remarks, was gentle with the children and most flatteringly deferential to Kurt. Of her former banter and coquetry toward him there was no trace. After the children had gone to bed, she played cribbage with Mrs. Merlin while Kurt read the papers.

When she was undressing that night she examined her shoulders in the mirror very closely.

”There should be little wings sprouting. I was never even make-believe good before. The relapse will be a winner when it comes. If I could only steady down to something like a normal life. But I never shall.”

She was standing pensively by a rosebush the next morning feeling appallingly weary of well-doing when Kurt in his riding clothes suddenly appeared before her.

”Would you like to ride this morning?” he asked. ”Work is slack just now.”

With a rush of joy she got into her boyish looking outfit and mounted the horse he had chosen for her, a thoroughbred animal but one far different from those she had tried out on field day. She was very careful not to try to outride the foreman, or to perform any of her marvels of horsemans.h.i.+p.

They had a long exhilarating ride over the foothills, and she felt the blood leaping again in her arteries at the turning from the comfortable channels of house life into the lure of the open.

”I was never meant for indoors,” she thought. ”I think I can stand it up here a while longer if he'll give me more of this exercise.”

That night as they sat in the library alone, he lost his habitual reticence and talked--through her guidance--of himself and his life.

”Does it satisfy you always,” she asked. ”Wouldn't you like the power of ruling fates and fortunes in a city way?”

”No;” he replied, almost fiercely. ”When a man has circled the herd and risen in his stirrups to throw a lariat and watched through the night by the light of camp fires, nothing else calls to him quite the same way. I couldn't endure to live a bottled up life--the life of cities. Men of my kind are branded; they may wander, but they always come back. After you once get on intimate terms with the mountain and the blue overhead, other things don't satisfy.”

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