Dorman turned and wrinkled his nose, by way of welcome, and shook his head vaguely, as though he might tell of several unimportant nibbles, if it were worth the effort. Beatrice sat a bit straighter, and dexterously whisked some pink ruffles down over two distracting ankles, and hoped Keith had not taken notice of them. He had, though; trust a man for that! Keith dismounted, dropped the reins to the ground, and came and laid himself down in the grass beside his Heart's Desire, and Beatrice noticed how tall he was, and slim and strong. “How did you know we were here?” she wanted to know, with lifted eyebrows. Keith wondered if there was a welcome behind that sweet, indifferent face. He never could be sure of anything in Beatrice's face, because it never was alike twice, it seemed to him--and if it spoke welcome for a second, the next there was only raillery, or something equally unsatisfying. “I saw you from the trail,” he answered promptly, evidently not thinking it wise to mention the fieldglass. And then: “Is Dick at home?” Not that he wanted Dick--but a fellow, even when he is in the last stages of love, feels need of an excuse sometimes. “No--we women are alone to-day. There isn't a man on the place, except Looey Sam, and he doesn't count.” Dorman squirmed around till he could look at the two, and his eyebrows were tied in a knot. “I wish, Be'trice, you wouldn't talk, 'less you whisper. De fishes won't bite a bit.” “All right, honey--we won't.” Dorman turned back to his fishing with a long breath of relief. His divinity never broke a promise, if she could help it. If Dorman Hayes had been Cupid himself, he could not have hit upon a more impish arrangement than that. To place a girl like Beatrice beside a fellow like Keith--a fellow who is tall, and browned, and extremely good-looking, and who has hazel eyes with a laugh in them always--a fellow, moreover, who is very much in love and very much in earnest about it--and condemn him to silence, or to whispers! Keith took advantage of the edict, and moved closer, so that he could whisper in comfort--and be nearer his Heart's Desire. He lay with his head propped upon his hand, and his elbow digging into the sod and getting grass-stains on his shirt sleeve, for the day was too warm for a coat. Beatrice, looking down at him, observed that his forearm, between his glove and wrist-band, was as white and smooth as her own. It is characteristic of a cowboy to have a face brown as an Indian, and hands girlishly white and soft. “I haven't had a glimpse of you for a week--not since I met you down by the river. Where have you been?” he whispered. “Here. Rex went lame, and Dick wouldn't let me ride any other horse, since that day Goldie bolted--and so the hills have called in vain. I've stayed at home and made quantities of Duchesse lace--I almost finished a love of a center piece--and mama thinks I have reformed. But Rex is better, and tomorrow I'm going somewhere.”