e gonna
believe that--"

Beatrice repented and offered him her hand.

"We'll not believe anything of you that isn't good? even if you did
want to kidnap me," she said.

CHAPTER XLI

THE NEW DAY

The slapping of the wind against the tent awakened Beatrice. She could
hear it soughing gently through the branches of the live oaks. An
outflung arm discovered Clay missing.

Presently she rose, sleep not yet brushed fully from her eyes, drew the
tent flaps together modestly under her chin, and looked out upon a
world which swam in the enchanted light of a dawn primeval. The
eastern sky was faintly pink with the promise of a coming sun. The
sweet, penetrating lilt of the lark flung greeting at her.

Her questing glance found Clay, busy over the mesquite fire upon which
he was cooking breakfast. She watched him move about, supple and light
and strong, and her heart lifted with sheer joy of the mate she had
chosen. He was such a man among men, this clear-eyed, bronzed husband
of a week. He was so clean and simple and satisfying. As she closed
the flaps she gave a deep sigh of content.

Every minute till she joined him was begrudged. For Beatrice had
learned the message of her heart. She knew that she was wholly and
completely in love with what life had brought her.

The hubbub of the city seemed to her now so small and so petty. Always
she had known a passionate love of things fine and good. But
civilization had thwarted her purposes, belittled her expression of
them. Environment had driven her into grooves of convention. Here at
last she was free.

And she was amazingly, radiantly happy. What did motor-cars or
wine-suppers or Paris gowns matter? They were the trappings that
stressed her slavery. Here she moved beside her mate without fear or
doubt in a world wonderful. Eye to eye, they spoke the truth to each
other after the fashion of brave, simple souls.

Glowing from the ice-cold bath of water from a mountain stream, she
stepped down the slope into a slant of sunshine to join Clay. He
looked up from the fire and waved a spoon gayly at her. For he too was
as jocund as the day which stood tiptoe on the misty mountain-tops.
They had come into the hills to spend their honeymoon alone together,
and life spoke to him in accents wholly joyous.

The wind and sun caressed her. As she moved toward him, a breath of
the morning flung the gown about her so that each step modeled anew the
slende