ng Dorn?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," replied Kurt, stepping out.

"I'm Anderson, from Ruxton, come to see your dad. This is my girl
Lenore."

Kurt acknowledged the slight bow from the veiled young woman, and then,
hesitating, he added, "Won't you come in?"

"No, not yet. I'm chokin' for air an' water. Bring us a drink," replied
Anderson.

Kurt hurried away to get a bucket and tin cup. As he drew water from the
well he was thinking rather vaguely that it was somehow
embarrassing--the fact of Mr. Anderson being accompanied by his
daughter. Kurt was afraid of his father. But then, what did it matter?
When he returned to the yard he found the rancher sitting in the shade
of one of the few apple-trees, and the young lady was standing near, in
the act of removing bonnet and veil. She had thrown the linen coat over
the seat of an old wagon-bed that lay near.

"Good water is scarce here, but I'm glad we have some," said Kurt; then
as he set down the bucket and offered a brimming cupful to the girl he
saw her face, and his eyes met hers. He dropped the cup and stared. Then
hurriedly, with flushing face, he bent over to recover and refill it.

"Ex-excuse me. I'm--clumsy," he managed to say, and as he handed the cup
to her he averted his gaze. For more than a year the memory of this very
girl had haunted him. He had seen her twice--the first time at the close
of his one year of college at the University of California, and the
second time on the street in Spokane. In a glance he had recognized the
strong, lithe figure, the sunny hair, the rare golden tint of her
complexion, the blue eyes, warm and direct. And he had sustained a shock
which momentarily confused him.

"Good water, hey?" dissented Anderson, after drinking a second cup. "Boy
that's wet, but it ain't water to drink. Come down in the foot-hills an'
I'll show you. My ranch 's called 'Many Waters,' an' you can't keep your
feet dry."

"I wish we had some of it here," replied Kurt, wistfully, and he waved a
hand at the broad, swelling slopes. The warm breath that blew in from
the wheatlands felt dry and smelled dry.

"You're in for a dry spell?" inquired Anderson, with interest that was
keen, and kindly as well.

"Father says so. And I fear it, too--for he never makes a mistake in
weather or crops."

"A hot, dry spell!... This summer?... Hum!... Boy, do you know that
wheat is the most important thing in the world to-day?"

"You mean on account of the war," repli