To the man sitting before the fire she bloomed in that dark cabin like a poppy in the desert. She was a hundred miracles each hour to him. He saw the exquisite mystery of her personality express itself in all she was and did--in the faint crimson just now streaming through her cheeks beneath the warm and tawny skin, in the charmingly shy gesture with which she had accepted his compliment, in the low, vibrant voice that played so wonderfully on his heartstrings. Not often is a sweet and singing soul clothed so exquisitely in a body of grace so young and lissom and vital. “And that’s whenever there’s an excuse for it,” he said, smiling at her. “But why feature to-morrow? Is it your birthday?” “We’re going home to-morrow.” “Are you? I didn’t know.” He fell silent, looking into the fire. It was not an unexpected announcement. These good days could not go on forever. She had done more for him than any other friend he had ever had. But, of course, life made its claims on her. She had to respond to them. It was a wholly undeserved happiness that she had stayed till he was out of danger and on the road to health. He wanted to tell her how he felt about it, but he would never be able to do that. Inside, he seemed to melt to a river of tears whenever he let himself dwell on her amazing goodness to one who had been dead when first she gave him her little hand and now was alive again. “Umpha, to-morrow. I’m crazy to see Ruthie, and what the boys are doing on the ranch.” “I’ve been an awful nuisance,” he admitted. “Haven’t you?” The little laugh that welled out of her was sweet and mocking. It enveloped him with her gracious and tender young womanhood. He liked to think that her nursing had pulled him through just as earlier her faith had rekindled in him self-respect and courage. The facts might not quite justify this, but he did not intend to let brutal actualities murder a beautiful dream. “But you can always point with pride, as the politicians say. I’m a credit to your nursing. Off your hands in ten days.” “You’re not off my hands yet. You’re going to the Diamond Bar K with us.” The blood drummed faster through his heart. He felt a stinging of the senses. Was there no end to the goodness of this astonishing and disturbing girl? Must she always be flinging out life lines to him? “Good of you--awf’ly good of you.” He looked at the fire, not at her. His voice was suspiciously low. “I might have known, knowing you. But I can’t impose myself any longer. I’ll be all right now at the camp.” “Do you think Dad and I will quit in the middle of a good job? No, sir. We’re going to get credit for finishing it. Lon’s breaking the road with a sled to-day. You’re to go down in it. Dr. Rayburn says he hasn’t time to go up to the camp to look after your bandages. You’ll have to put up with us for a while.” “I could go to the hotel at Wild Horse,” he suggested.