ant to see the eggs? Look!" He bent the limb until
the dainty white treasures, half buried in the fluffy down, were
revealed--but still she did not smile.

"Oh, stop, Rufus!" she cried, "what will the mother-bird think? She
might be frightened at us and leave her nest. Come, let's hurry away
before she sees us!"

She turned and walked quickly down the valley, never pausing to look
back, even when Rufus stopped to pluck a flower from among the rocks.

"Here," he said, after he had helped her down the Indian stairway; and
when she held up her hand, passively, he dropped a forget-me-not into
it.

"Oh!" she cried, carried away for a moment, "do they grow down here?"

"Yes," he said, soberly, "even here. And they--sometimes you find them
where you wouldn't expect--in rough places, you know, and among the
stones. I--I hope you will keep it," he said, simply. And Lucy divined
what was in his heart, better perhaps than he himself; but when at
last she was alone she buried her face in the pillow, and for a long
time the house was very still.

CHAPTER XIII

A SNOW-SCENE

There was a big fire out under the mesquite that night and a band of
cowboys, in all the bravery of spurs, shaps, and pistols, romped
around it in a stage-struck exuberance of spirits. The night was
hardly cold enough to call for fringed leather _chaparejos_, and their
guns should have been left in their blankets; nor are long-shanked
Texas spurs quite the proper thing about camp, having a dirty way of
catching and tripping their wearers; but the _rodeo_ outfit felt that
it was on dress parade and was trying its best to look the cowboy
part. Bill Lightfoot even had a red silk handkerchief draped about his
neck, with the slack in front, like a German napkin; and his cartridge
belt was slung so low that it threatened every moment to drop his huge
Colt's revolver into the dirt--but who could say a word?

The news of Judge Ware's visit had passed through the Four Peaks
country like the rumor of an Indian uprising and every man rode into
Hidden Water with an eye out for calico, some with a foolish grin,
some downcast and reserved, some swaggering in the natural pride of
the lady's man. But a becoming modesty had kept Lucy Ware indoors, and
Kitty had limited herself to a furtive survey of the scene from behind
what was left of Sallie Winship's lace curtains. With the subtle
wisdom of a _rodeo_ boss Jefferson Creede had excused himself to the
ladies