Lucy could have cried at her hero's sudden lapse--from Parnassus to the scullery, from love to the commonplaces of living; but she had schooled herself to bear with him, since patience is a woman's part. Yet her honest blue eyes were not adapted to concealment and, furtively taking note of her distress, Hardy fell into the role of a penitent. "Is my garden such a poor place," he inquired gravely, "that you must leave it the moment we have come? You have not even seen _Chupa Rosa_." "Well, show me _Chupa Rosa_--and then we will go." She spoke the words reluctantly, rising slowly to her feet; and Hardy knew that in some hidden way he had hurt her, yet in what regard he could not tell. A vague uneasiness came over him and he tried awkwardly to make amends for his fault, but good intentions never yet crossed a river or healed a breach. "Here is her nest," he said, "almost above our seat. Look, Lucy, it is made out of willow down and spider webs, bound round and round the twig. Don't you want to see the eggs? Look!" He bent the limb until the dainty white treasures, half buried in the fluffy down, were revealed--but still she did not smile. "Oh, stop, Rufus!" she cried, "what will the mother-bird think? She might be frightened at us and leave her nest. Come, let's hurry away before she sees us!" She turned and walked quickly down the valley, never pausing to look back, even when Rufus stopped to pluck a flower from among the rocks. "Here," he said, after he had helped her down the Indian stairway; and when she held up her hand, passively, he dropped a forget-me-not into it. "Oh!" she cried, carried away for a moment, "do they grow down here?" "Yes," he said, soberly, "even here. And they--sometimes you find them where you wouldn't expect--in rough places, you know, and among the stones. I--I hope you will keep it," he said, simply. And Lucy divined what was in his heart, better perhaps than he himself; but when at last she was alone she buried her face in the pillow, and for a long time the house was very still. CHAPTER XIII A SNOW-SCENE There was a big fire out under the mesquite that night and a band of cowboys, in all the bravery of spurs, shaps, and pistols, romped around it in a stage-struck exuberance of spirits. The night was hardly cold enough to call for fringed leather _chaparejos_, and their guns should have been left in their blankets; nor are long-shanked Texas spurs quite the proper thing about camp, having a dirty way of catching and tripping their wearers; but the _rodeo_ outfit felt that it was on dress parade and was trying its best to look the cowboy part. Bill Lightfoot even had a red silk handkerchief draped about his neck, with the slack in front, like a German napkin; and his cartridge belt was slung so low that it threatened every moment to drop his huge Colt's revolver into the dirt--but who could say a word?