In her mind she could see the body of Livingston in the corral, trampled upon and mangled by a multitude of frightened sheep. She stifled a cry of horror. Why had she not gone there at once? For no reason except the hope in her heart that it might not have been him who had been shot--that she might find him at the house. But he was not there! Then it must have been he; his groans she had heard--that still sounded in her ears. He had brown hair that waved softly from a brow broad and white. His face was boyish and sad in repose. She could see it now as she had seen it by the spring, and his eyes were gray and tender. She had noticed them this day. What was she doing there by the window? Perhaps after all he was not dead, but suffering terribly while she lingered! She rose quickly with new courage. As she turned a hand touched her on the shoulder, and she fell back weak against the house. "I beg your pardon! I did not know--could scarcely believe that it was you--Miss--Hathaway! Won't you come into the house?" "_You!_" she cried as in a dream. "_Where_ have you been?" His tone, quiet, polite, hid the surprise that her question caused. "I've been back there in the hills hunting chickens. You see I have been fortunate enough to get some. I followed them a great distance, and night overtook me up there so suddenly that I've had some difficulty in finding my way back. Now may I ask to what I owe the honor of this--visit?" All fear and weakness had gone. She stood erect before him, her head thrown back from her shoulders, her position, as it must appear to him, driving all else from her mind. "In other words, you want to know why I was peeking into your window at this time of the day!" "Just so, if you put it that way. At least I should be pleased to know the nature of your visit." He threw the prairie chickens down beside the house, watching meanwhile the girl's erect figure. The soft, quiet grace he had seen at the spring had given place to something different--greater. "Not a very dignified position in which to be caught--and I do not like you any better for having caught me so!" she finally flashed back at him. "I have no apologies to offer you, and wouldn't offer one, anyway--under the circumstances. I'll tell you what brought me here, though. While passing by your corral, down the road, I heard a great commotion, and some shooting, so I came over here to tell you. Perhaps I was afraid to pass the corral after that." She smiled wickedly, but he, innocently believing, exclaimed: "Why were you alone? Where were the boys that I saw with you this morning? It isn't right that you should be out alone after night like this." "They went on--ahead of me. I rode slowly," she replied hesitatingly. He did not notice her nervous manner of speech. "They ought to have stayed with you," he declared. "You should never ride alone, particularly after dark. Don't do it again."