thing. She did not
dream of Mark King as a possible husband; another unromantic title. She
merely hungered for male admiration. It was the wine of life, the breath
in her nostrils. As it happens to be to some countless millions of other
girls.... All of which is so clearly a pretty nearly universal condition
that it would seem that if Mark King had had his wits about him he must
have realized it. And yet had he glimpsed that which should have been so
obvious he would have been startled, somewhat shocked, and would have
grieved over his friend's empty-headed daughter, holding her
unmaidenly--when she was but dallying with dreams which mean so much to
all maidens.

But Gloria did not say to him: "Mark King, I am determined that you
shall adore me, pretty face, pretty figure, pretty ways and all." Nor
yet to herself did she put things so baldly. She did, however, yield
herself luxuriously to the springtime, the romance of the hour, the
appeal of her latest cavalier, and preen herself like a mating bird.
King saw, admired, and in his own fashion played his own part. It was
not clear to him that there had been a new pleasure in his own strength
when he had lifted her into her saddle, and yet her little breathless
laugh had rung musically in his ears. Had a man arisen to announce,
jibingly, that Mark King was "showing off" before a girl like a boy of
ten, though within bounds, he would have called the man a liar and
forthwith have kicked him out of the landscape ... They rode on, side by
side, each content with seeing only that which lay on the surface--both
of his companion and of himself. In a word, they were living life
naturally, without demanding of the great theatrical manager to know
exactly what parts they were to play in the human comedy. Externals
sufficed just now; the fragrant still forests, the pulse-stirring
sunshine, the warm, fruitful earth below and the blue sky above.

From the first he called her Gloria quite naturally; to her he was Mr.
King. But the "Mark" slipped out before they came into sight of the
roofs of picturesque Coloma.

_Chapter VI_

"You are sure you won't be gone more than an hour?" Gloria asked.

Never, it seemed to her, had she seen a lonelier-looking place than old
Coloma drowsing on the fringe of the wilderness. The street into which
they had ridden was deserted save for a couple of dogs making each
other's acquaintance suspiciously. Why was it more lonesome here than it
h