“Stop that.” Glenn tapped her fingers lightly. “Haven’t I told you not to do that? It’s a crime to ill use such hair as yours.” Esther obeyed him, but could not resist the impulse to say: “You may look like Christ, but you can act like the devil.” She saw him drop his head and walk a few steps away. “You might as well have come on with me if you were coming anyhow.” He did not look at her. “I told you I would come, if you would wait until to-morrow. It was a poem for you I wanted to finish.” Esther went to his side, penitent; the act had lost its sharp outlines to her. “The words that you said someone would set to music for me?” “Yes.” “Let me see them, won’t you?” “Certainly not.” “Oh, do; I’m wild to read them.” Her eyes lost their unconcern as she pleaded. “You know I am in earnest when I say that you will not have that pleasure. What’s the use teasing?” He was drumming on a rock with his boot heel, as he leaned against a shrub. The stream that caught the waterfall laughed and lathered over its rocks as it flowed beside them. They were of the most delicate tintings, pale lavenders, green, and pink and blue. Glenn Andrews was gazing at them. “Did you ever see such pretty shades as the rocks of mountain regions take on? I’ve often wondered what caused their coloring.” With an aggrieved air, Esther allowed the drift of interest to turn at his bidding. “I supposed rocks were alike the world over.” “That’s because you only know your own beautiful ones; some day you’ll see the ugly ones; then you needn’t bother to wonder what made them so. Just kick them out of the way and forget them.” “Is that what you do?” “Yes, when they are not too big for me.” “I don’t like the hurt, when I stump my toe on these pretty ones. It teaches me to go around all I can. The jagged ones that I meet some day needn’t think of being disturbed, if I can get around them.” “But sometimes they block the road, what then?” “I’d get somebody to help me over.” “I hope you will have that good luck all your days, Esther.” Glenn Andrews’ voice had a minor sweetness. The thought of contrasting her vagrant childhood with the world she must one day know, was singularly pathetic to him. Stooping, he picked up a rock and cast it across the waters. “Yes,” she said; “I was always lucky, that’s how grandpa came to call me ‘God’s child.’” “We’d better go now; it must be a good three mile walk.” Glenn Andrews took particular care to note her mood as they went along, the wild charm of her unstudied grace, the vibrating delight of life. How much happier she was than if she had had her way. CHAPTER IX.