There was a hop at the hotel that night, and it was almost a matter of courtesy for Kate to go. Ladies were in demand, for there were not very many of them at the hotel. Every one was expected to do his best to make it a success; and Kate, not at all averse to a waltz or two, dressed herself for the occasion with her habitual striving after artistic effect. She was one of those women who make a picture of themselves as naturally as a bird sings. She had an opal necklace which Jack had given her because, he said, she had as many moods as an opal had colors; and she wore this with a crepe gown, the tint of the green lights in her necklace. A box of flowers came for her as she was dressing; they were Puritan roses, and Peter Roeder's card was in the midst of them. She was used to having flowers given her. It would have seemed remarkable if some one had not sent her a bouquet when she was going to a ball. “I shall dance but twice,” she said to those who sought her for a partner. “Neither more nor less.” “Ain't you goin' t' dance with me at all?” Roeder managed to say to her in the midst of her laughing altercation with the gentlemen. “Dance with you!” cried Kate. “How do men learn to dance when they are up a gulch?” “I ken dance,” he said stubbornly. He was mortified at her chaffing. “Then you may have the second waltz,” she said, in quick contrition. “Now you other gentlemen have been dancing any number of times these last fifteen years. But Mr. Roeder is just back from a hard campaign,--a campaign against fate. My second waltz is his. And I shall dance my best.” It happened to be just the right sort of speech. The women tried good-naturedly to make Roeder's evening a pleasant one. They were filled with compassion for a man who had not enjoyed the society of their sex for fifteen years. They found much amusement in leading him through the square dances, the forms of which were utterly unknown to him. But he waltzed with a sort of serious alertness that was not so bad as it might have been. Kate danced well. Her slight body seemed as full of the spirit of the waltz as a thrush's body is of song. Peter Roeder moved along with her in a maze, only half-answering her questions, his gray eyes full of mystery. Once they stopped for a moment, and he looked down at her, as with flushed face she stood smiling and waving her gossamer fan, each motion stirring the frail leaves of the roses he had sent her. “It's cur'ous,” he said softly, “but I keep thinkin' about that black gulch.” “Forget it,” she said. “Why do you think of a gulch when--” She stopped with a sudden recollection that he was not used to persiflage. But he anticipated what she was about to say.