dinner she had caught up her pony and was off for a ride
through the cottonwood. She had been compelled to catch up the pony
herself, for of late Ben had been neglectful of this duty. Until the
last week or so he had always caught her pony and placed the saddle on
it before leaving in the morning, assuring her that if she did not ride
during his absence the pony would not suffer through being saddled and
bridled. But within the last week she thought she detected a change in
Ben's manner. He seemed preoccupied and glum, falling suddenly into a
taciturnity broken only by brief periods during which he condescended
to reply to her questions with--it seemed--grudging monosyllables.

Several times, too, she had caught him watching her with furtive
glances in which, she imagined, she detected a glint of speculation.
But of this she was not quite sure, for when she bluntly questioned him
concerning his moods he had invariably given her an evasive reply.
Fearing that there might have been a recurrence of the old trouble with
the Two Diamond manager--about which he had told her during her first
days at the cabin--she ventured a question. He had grimly assured her
that he anticipated no further trouble in that direction. So, unable
to get a direct reply from him she had decided that perhaps he would
speak when the time came, and so she had ceased questioning.

In spite of his negligence regarding the pony, she had not given up her
rides. Nor had she neglected to give a part of each morning to the
story.

The work of gradually developing her hero's character had been an
absorbing task; times when she lingered over the pages of the story she
found herself wondering whether she had sounded the depths of his
nature. She knew, at least, that she had made him attractive, for as
he moved among her pages, she--who should have been satiated with him
because of being compelled to record his every word and movement--found
his magnetic personality drawing her applause, found that he haunted
her dreams, discovered one day that her waking moments were filled with
thoughts of him.

But of late she had begun to suspect that her interest in him was not
all on account of the story; there were times when she sat long
thinking of him, seeing him, watching the lights and shadows of
expression come and go in his face. Somewhere between the real
Ferguson and the man who was impersonating him in her story was an
invisible line that she coul