down into the bush, searching for the nest of
fledglings he felt sure the hawk had robbed of a mother.

He was absurdly grieved that his gun was still with his missing
baggage. It would have delighted him to have brought the lawless
pirate to book, and restored the mother to her panic stricken chicks.

He peered into the bush searching for the nest, but the foliage was
dense, and though he groped the boughs aside he could discover no
signs of it. Still, the thought of those motherless chicks had stirred
him, and he persisted.

Breaking his way in among the boughs he searched more carefully.
But at last, after wasting nearly a quarter of an hour upon his
tender-hearted sympathy, he finally decided that he must be wrong.
There was no nest of fledglings. He really felt quite disappointed.
Just as he was about to abandon his search something fluttered at the
very roots of the bush. It was of a grayish blue. With a lunge he made
a grab, caught it, and stood up. It was a ball of paper, loosely
crumpled.

With an exclamation of disgust he made his way out of the bush and
found himself confronted by the laughing gray eyes of Helen Seton.

"For goodness' sake, Mr. Bryant!" the girl exclaimed, "whatever are
you playing at? Is it Injuns, or--or are you busy on one of your short
cuts? I'm nearly scared to death. I surely am."

Bill looked into that laughing face, and slowly one great hand went up
to his perspiring brow. It was the action of a man at a loss.

"Guess you aren't half as scared as I am," he blurted out. "I've just
had the life scared right out of me. It was a pirate hawk. A big one
flapped up out of that bush, with a small bird in its claws. I--I was
looking for the little feller's fledglings, and the nest. Sort of
birds' nesting. You see, I guessed they'd need feeding--with their
mother gone."

Helen looked into the eyes of this absurd creature, and--wondered. Was
there--was there ever a man quite so simple and--soft hearted? Her
eyes became very gentle.

"And did you--find them?" she asked quietly.

Bill shook his head, and looked ruefully down at the paper in his
hand.

"Only this," he said, almost dejectedly.

His air was too much for the girl's sense of humor. She laughed as she
shifted the folded easel, and japanned tin box she was carrying, from
one hand to the other.

"Oh, dear, oh, dear," she cried, stifling her mirth. "And--and I do so
hate hawks. They're such villains, and--and the valley's