blue skirt and a hat with a stiff, blue
feather. She was at Buckley's side, consuming a slice of cake with
delicate, precise motions of her hand, and greeting with patent
abstraction his solicitous attentions.

IX

Meta Beggs saw Gordon at the same moment; and, without observation on the
part of her escort, beckoned him to her. She said promptly:

"Mr. Makimmon, please take care of me while Buckley goes down by those
carriages, where we saw you a little while ago, and gets his share of the
refreshment there. I'm certain that dusty road made him as dry as
possible."

Buckley grinned; such frank feminine acknowledgment and solicitude for the
masculine palate was rare in Greenstream. "Why, no, Miss Beggs," he
rejoined; "I'm in good shape for a while yet. I got a flask under the seat
of the buggy--"

"I insist on your tending to it at once. I know just how it is with
men--they have got to have that little refreshment ... don't you call it
'life preserver'? I'll be right by the counter; if Mr. Makimmon will be so
kind--"

"Well," Buckley agreed, "a drink don't go bad any time; the road was kind
of dusty. If you insist, Miss Beggs."

"I do! I do!" He turned and left them, striding toward the lower level.
Then:

"The fool!" she exclaimed viciously; "my arm is all black and blue where
he pinched it. My skin is not like the hides on these mountain girls, it
tears and bruises dreadfully easy, it's so fine. Let's go back there," she
pointed to where, behind the platform and counter, a path was trampled
through brush higher than their heads. Gordon glanced swiftly in the
direction in which Buckley Simmons had vanished. "He won't be back," she
added contemptuously, "for a half hour. He'll stay down there and drink
rotten whiskey and sputter over rotten stories." Without further parley
she proceeded in the direction indicated; and, following her, Gordon
dismissed Buckley from his thoughts.

Meta Beggs wore a shirtwaist perforated like a sieve; through it he saw
flimsy lace, a faded blue ribband, her gleaming shoulders. In an obscure
turn of the path she stopped and faced him. "Just look," she proclaimed,
unfastening a bone button that held her cuff. She rolled her sleeve back
over her arm. High up, near the soft under-turning, were visible the
bluish prints of fingers. "You see," she added; "and there are
others ... where I can't show you."

"Buck's pretty vigorous with the girls," he admitted; "I once dropped h