ahead. What would a life like that be?
Awed, speculative, they went back to their sturdy children and their
ill-kempt houses, to sit in the sun on the door-steps and muse a while.

Into the sunshine rode Hazel Radcliffe well content with the world,
herself, and her escort.

Milton Hamar was good company. He was keen of wit and a past-master in
the delicate art of flattery. That he was fabulously wealthy and
popular in New York society; that he was her father's friend both
socially and financially, and had been much of late in their home on
account of some vast mining enterprise in which both were interested;
and that his wife was said to be uncongenial and always interested in
other men rather than her husband, were all facts that combined to give
Hazel a pleasant, half-romantic interest in the man by her side. She had
been conscious of a sense of satisfaction and pleasant anticipation when
her father told her that he was to be of their party. His wit and
gallantry would make up for the necessity of having her Aunt Maria
along. Aunt Maria was always a damper to anything she came near. She was
the personification of propriety. She had tried to make Hazel think she
must remain in the car and rest that day instead of going off on a wild
goose chase after a mine. No lady did such things, she told her niece.

Hazel's laugh rang out like the notes of a bird as the two rode slowly
down the trail, not hurrying, for there was plenty of time. They could
meet the others on their way back if they did not get to the mine so
soon, and the morning was lovely.

Milton Hamar could appreciate the beauties of nature now and then. He
called attention to the line of hills in the distance, and the sharp
steep peak of a mountain piercing the sunlight. Then skillfully he led
his speech around to his companion, and showed how lovelier than the
morning she was.

He had been indulging in such delicate flattery since they first started
from New York, whenever the indefatigable aunt left them alone long
enough, but this morning there was a note of something closer and more
intimate in his words; a warmth of tenderness that implied unspeakable
joy in her beauty, such as he had never dared to use before. It
flattered her pride deliciously. It was beautiful to be young and
charming and have a man say such things with a look like that in his
eyes--eyes that had suffered, and appealed to her to pity. With her
young, innocent heart she did pity, an