"Is it necessary that you should have my name?"

"Not in the least," returned Glover with insistent consideration, "any
name at all will do, so I shall know what to call you."

For an instant she seemed unable to catch her breath, and he was about to
explain that the rarefied air often affected newcomers in that way when
she answered with some intensity, "I am Miss Brock. I never have
occasion to use any other name."

Whatever result she looked for from her spirited words, his manner lost
none of its urbanity. "Indeed? That's the name of our Pittsburg
magnate. You ought to be sure of a position under _him_--you might turn
out to be a relation," he laughed, softly.

"Quite possibly."

"Do not return this afternoon," he continued as she backed away from him.
"This mountain air is exhausting at first----"

"Your letters?" she queried with an expression that approached pleasant
irony.

"They may wait."

She courtesied quaintly. He had never seen such a woman in his life, and
as his eyes fixed on her down the dim hall he was overpowered by the
grace of her vanishing figure.

Sitting at his table he was still thinking of her when Solomon, the
messenger, came in with a telegram. The boy sat down opposite the
engineer, while the latter read the message.

"That Miss Brock is fine, isn't she?"

Glover scowled. "I took a despatch over to the car yesterday and she
gave me a dollar," continued Solomon.

"What car?"

"Her car. She's in that Pittsburg party."

"The young lady that sat here a moment ago?"

"Sure; didn't you know? There she goes now to the car again." Glover
stepped to the east window. A young lady was gathering up her gown to
mount the car-step and a porter was assisting her. The daintiness of her
manner was a nightmare of conviction. Glover turned from the window and
began tearing up papers on his table. He tore up all the worthless
papers in sight and for months afterward missed valuable ones. When he
had filled the waste-basket he rammed blue-prints down into it with his
foot until he succeeded in smashing it. Then he sat down and held his
head between his hands.

She was entitled to an apology, or an attempt at one at least, and though
he would rather have faced a Sweetgrass blizzard than an interview he set
his lips and with bitterness in his heart made his preparations. The
incident only renewed his confidence in his incredible stupidity, but
what he felt was that a girl with