ing as being too shy. Do you get me? Good night!" And with a little
rush she was in her tent.

Linder walked slowly down to the water's edge, and stood there,
thinking, until her light went out. His brain was in a whirl with a
sensation entirely strange to it. A light wind, laden with snow-smell
from the mountains, pressed gently against his features, and presently
Linder took deeper breaths than he had ever known before.

"By Jove!" he said. "Who'd have thought it possible?"

CHAPTER V

When Zen awoke next morning the mowing machines of Transley's outfit
were already singing their symphony in the meadows; she could hear the
metallic rhythm as it came borne on the early breeze. She lay awake on
her camp cot for a few minutes, stretching her fingers to the canvas
ceiling and feeling that it was good to be alive. And it was. The ripple
of water came from almost underneath the walls of her tent; the smell
of spruce trees and balm-o'-Gilead and new-mown hay was in the air. She
could feel the warmth of the sunshine already pouring upon her white
roof; she could trace the gentle sway of the trees by the leafy patterns
gliding forward and back. A cheeky gopher, exploring about the door
of her tent, ventured in, and, sitting bolt upright, sent his shrill
whistle boldly forth. She watched his fine bravery for a minute, then
clapped her hands together, and laughed as he fled.

"Therein we have the figures of both Transley and Linder," she mused
to herself. "Upright, Transley; horizontal, Linder. I doubt if the poor
fellow slept last night after the fright I gave him." Slowly and calmly
she turned the incident over in her mind. She wondered a little if she
had been quite fair with Linder. Her words and conduct were capable of
very broad interpretations. She was not at all in love with Linder; of
that Zen was very sure. She was equally sure that she was not at all in
love with Transley. She admitted that she admired Transley for his calm
assumptions, but they nettled her a little nevertheless. If this should
develop into a love affair--IF it should--she had no intention that it
was to be a pleasant afternoon's canter. It was to be a race--a race,
mind you--and may the best man win! She had a feeling, amounting almost
to a conviction, that Transley underrated his foreman's possibilities
in such a contest. She had seen many a dark horse, less promising than
Linder, gallop home with the stakes.

Then Zen smiled her own qui