il, they came upon a camp which looked more permanent than was
usual in that country. A few men were lounging around in the sun, and
there were scrapers of the wheeled variety, and wagons, and plows, and
divers other implements of toil that were strange to the place. Also
there was a long, reddish-yellow ridge branching out from the creek;
Billy knew it for a ditch--but a ditch larger than he had seen for
many a day. He did not say anything, even when Flora exclaimed over
the surprise of finding a camp there, but headed straight for the
camp.

When they came within speaking distance, a man showed in the opening
of one of the tents, looked at them a moment, and came forward.

"Why, that's Fred Walland!" cried Flora, and then caught herself
suddenly. "I didn't know he was back," she added, in a tone much less
eager.

Billy gave her a quick look that might have told her much had she seen
it. He did not much like the color which had flared into her cheeks
at sight of the Pilgrim, and he liked still less the tone in which
she spoke his name. It was not much, and he had the sense to push the
little devil of jealousy out of sight behind him, but it had come and
changed something in the heart of Billy.

"Why, hello!" greeted the Pilgrim, and Billy remembered keenly that
the Pilgrim had spoken in just that way when he had opened the door of
the line-camp upon them, that night. "I was going to ride over to the
ranch, after a while. How are yuh, anyhow?" He came and held up his
hand to Flora, and she put her own into it. Billy, with eyebrows
pinched close, thought that they sure took their own time about
letting go again, and that the smile which she gave the Pilgrim was
quite superfluous to the occasion.

"Yuh seem to be some busy over here," he remarked carelessly, turning
his eyes to the new ditch.

"Well, yes. Brown's having a ditch put in here. We only started a few
days ago; them da--them no-account Swedes he got to do the rough work
are so slow, we're liable to be at it all summer. How's everybody at
the ranch? How's your mother, Miss Bridger? Has she got any mince pies
baked?"

"I don't know--you might ride over with us and see," she invited,
smiling at him again. "We were just going to turn back--weren't we,
Billy Boy?"

"Sure!" he testified, and for the first time found some comfort
in being called Billy Boy; because, if looks went for anything, it
certainly made the Pilgrim very uncomfortable. The spirits of