“Ye’re gettin’ bold, Mister Smith. I’ll not listen to ye.” And she turned away, and began industriously taking her clothes from the line. But Hal did not want to be dismissed. He came a step closer. “Coming down the mountain-side,” he said, “I found something wonderful. It’s bare and grim up there, but I came on a sheltered corner where the sun shone, and there was a wild rose. Only one! I thought to myself, ‘So roses grow, even in the loneliest parts of the world!’” “Sure, ’tis a poetry-book again!” she cried. “Why didn’t ye bring the rose?” “There is a poetry-book that tells us to ‘leave the wild-rose on its stalk.’ It will go on blooming there; but if one were to pluck it, it would wither in a few hours.” He had meant nothing more by this than to keep the conversation going. But her answer turned the tide of their acquaintance. “Ye can never be sure, lad. Perhaps to-night a storm may come and blow it to pieces. Perhaps if ye’d pulled it and been happy, ’twould ’a been what the rose was for.” Whatever of unconscious patronage there had been in the poet’s attitude was lost now in the eternal mystery. Whether the girl knew it--or cared--she had won the woman’s first victory. She had caught the man’s mind and pinned it with curiosity. What did this wild rose of the mining camps mean? The wild rose, apparently unconscious that she had said anything epoch-making, was busy with the wash; and meantime Hal Warner studied her features and pondered her words. From a lady of sophistication they would have meant only one thing, an invitation; but in this girl’s clear grey eyes was nothing of wantonness, only pain. But what was this pain in the face and words of one so young, so eager and alive? Was it the melancholy of her race, the thing one got in old folk-songs? Or was it a new and special kind of melancholy, engendered in mining-camps in the far West of America? The girl’s countenance was as intriguing as her words. Her grey eyes were set under sharply defined dark brows, which did not match her hair. Her lips also were sharply defined, and straight, almost without curves, so that it seemed as if her mouth had been painted in carmine upon her face. These features gave her, when she stared at you, an aspect vivid and startling, bold, with a touch of defiance. But when she smiled, the red lips would curve into gentler lines, and the grey eyes would become wistful, and seemingly darker in colour. Winsome indeed, but not simple, was this Irish lass! SECTION 8. Hal asked the name of his new acquaintance, and she told him it was Mary Burke. “Ye’ve not been here long, I take it,” she said, “or ye’d have heard of ‘Red Mary.’ ’Tis along of this hair.” “I’ve not been here long,” he answered, “but I shall hope to stay now--along of this hair! May I come to see you some time, Miss Burke?”