full of them.
But there, the valley is full of everything bad--isn't it?"

Bill was smoothing out the paper absent mindedly. Helen's reference
had reminded him of his purpose. Her presence somehow made it
difficult.

But Helen went on without apparently noticing his awkwardness.

"Tell me, Mr. Bryant, what was it brought you out this way, when you
ought to be worrying around getting wise to--to the ranching
business?" she demanded.

Bill flung back his broad shoulders, and, with the movement, seemed to
fling off every care. He laughed cordially.

"Say, you make me laugh," he cried. "Now if I was to tell you what
had brought me this way, you'd sure get mad." Then he discovered the
things she was carrying for the first time. "Say, can't I carry those
things?" he cried, reaching out and possessing himself of them without
ceremony. "Why, it's a paint box, and--and easel," he cried in
awe-struck tones. "I didn't guess you--painted."

Helen was frankly delighted with him, but she promptly denied the
charge.

"Paint? 'Daub,' you mean. Guess Charlie tried to knock painting into
my--my thick head. But he had to quit it after I reached the daubing
stage. I don't think he guesses I'll ever win prizes at it," she went
on, moving up toward the pine. "Still, I might sell some of my daubs
among the worst drinking cases in the village."

But Bill felt the outrage of such possibilities.

"I'll buy 'em all," he cried. "Just name your price, I'd--I'd like to
collect works of art," he added enthusiastically.

Helen turned abruptly and glared.

"How dare you laugh at me?" she cried, in mock anger. "I--I might have
paid you to take one away, but I just won't--now. So there. Works of
art! How dare you? And what are you hugging that old piece of paper to
death for? Give it to me. Perhaps it's somebody's love letter. Though
folks don't generally write love letters on blue paper. It suggests
something too legal."

Bill yielded up the paper with a good-natured smile.

"It's all mussed and dirty," he said, in a sort of apology.

"That's up to me," cried Helen. "Anyway a woman's curiosity don't mind
dirt."

She smoothed the paper carefully as she paused at the foot of the
pine. Bill looked around.

"Is this where you paint?" he asked.

Helen nodded. She was busy with the paper. Bill occupied himself by
thoroughly entangling the legs of the folded easel, in an endeavor to
set it up for her. He tried it every way without succe