“I lef' somethin' fer ye to eat, dad,” she replied, “ef ye gits hungry before I git back.” “You heerd me?” he called after her, knitting his brows. “Yes, dad; I heerd ye,” she answered, adding to herself, “But I don't heed ye.” In truth, the girl heeded nobody. It was not her way to ask consent, even her own, nor to follow advice. At the bend of the road she found the bag, and for an instant she stood wavering. An impulse turned her to the river, and she loosed the boat, and headed it across the swift, shallow water from the ford and straight toward the mill. At every stroke of her paddle the water rose above the prow of the boat, and, blown into spray, flew back and drenched her; the wind loosed her hair, and, tugging at her skirts, draped her like a statue; and she fought them, wind and water, with mouth set and a smile in her eyes. One sharp struggle still, where the creek leaped into freedom; the mouth grew a little firmer, the eyes laughed more, the keel grated on pebbles, and the boat ran its nose into the withered sedge on the Stetson shore. A tall gray figure was pouring grain into the hopper when she reached the door of the mill. She stopped abruptly, Rome Stetson turned, and again the two were face to face. No greeting passed. The girl lifted her head with a little toss that deepened the set look about the mountaineer's mouth; her lax figure grew tense as though strung suddenly against some coming harm, and her eyes searched the shadows without once resting on him. “Whar's Uncle Gabe?” She spoke shortly, and as to a stranger. “Gone to town,” said Rome, composedly. “He had schooled himself for this meeting.” “When's he comm' back?” “Not 'fore night, I reckon.” “Whar's Isom?” “Isom's sick.” “Well, who's tendin' this mill?” For answer he tossed the empty bag into the corner and, without looking at her, picked up another bag. “I reckon ye see me, don't ye?” he asked, coolly. “Hev a cheer, and rest a spell. Hit's a purty long climb whar you come from.” The girl was confused. She stayed in the doorway, a little helpless and suspicious. What was Rome Stetson doing here? His mastery of the situation, his easy confidence, puzzled and irritated her. Should she leave? The mountaineer was a Stetson, a worm to tread on if it crawled across the path. It would be like backing down before an enemy. He might laugh at her after she was gone, and, at that thought, she sat down in the chair with composed face, looking through the door at the tumbling water, which broke with a thousand tints under the sun, but able still to see Rome, sidewise, as he moved about the hopper, whistling softly. Once she looked around, fancying she saw a smile on his sober face. Their eyes came near meeting, and she turned quite away. “Ever seed a body out'n his head?” The girl's eyes rounded with a start of surprise.