se
of one of the supports of the trestle where the cresses grew thickest,
and plucked a couple of handfuls, washing them in the creek and pinning
them up in her handkerchief. It made a little, round, cold bundle, and
Hilma, warm from her walk, found a delicious enjoyment in pressing the
damp ball of it to her cheeks and neck.

For all the change that Annixter had noted in her upon the occasion of
the barn dance, Hilma remained in many things a young child. She was
never at loss for enjoyment, and could always amuse herself when left
alone. Just now, she chose to drink from the creek, lying prone on the
ground, her face half-buried in the water, and this, not because she was
thirsty, but because it was a new way to drink. She imagined herself a
belated traveller, a poor girl, an outcast, quenching her thirst at the
wayside brook, her little packet of cresses doing duty for a bundle of
clothes. Night was coming on. Perhaps it would storm. She had nowhere to
go. She would apply at a hut for shelter.

Abruptly, the temptation to dabble her feet in the creek presented
itself to her. Always she had liked to play in the water. What a delight
now to take off her shoes and stockings and wade out into the shallows
near the bank! She had worn low shoes that afternoon, and the dust of
the trail had filtered in above the edges. At times, she felt the grit
and grey sand on the soles of her feet, and the sensation had set
her teeth on edge. What a delicious alternative the cold, clean water
suggested, and how easy it would be to do as she pleased just then, if
only she were a little girl. In the end, it was stupid to be grown up.

Sitting upon the bank, one finger tucked into the heel of her shoe,
Hilma hesitated. Suppose a train should come! She fancied she could see
the engineer leaning from the cab with a great grin on his face, or the
brakeman shouting gibes at her from the platform. Abruptly she blushed
scarlet. The blood throbbed in her temples. Her heart beat. Since the
famous evening of the barn dance, Annixter had spoken to her but twice.
Hilma no longer looked after the ranch house these days. The thought of
setting foot within Annixter's dining-room and bed-room terrified her,
and in the end her mother had taken over that part of her work. Of the
two meetings with the master of Quien Sabe, one had been a mere exchange
of good mornings as the two happened to meet over by the artesian well;
the other, more complicated, had