The impression which the poem made upon Smith was deep. It was a constant surprise to him also. The thoughts it expressed, the sensations it described, he had believed were entirely original with himself. He had not conceived it possible that any one else could feel toward a woman as he felt toward Dora. Therefore, when the poet put many of his heart-throbs into words, they startled him, as though, somehow, his own heart were photographed and held up to view. Susie had finished her lesson, and, cramped from sitting, was walking about the living-room to rest herself, while this conversation was taking place. Her glance fell upon a gaudy vase on a shelf, and some thought came to her which made her laugh mischievously. She emptied the contents of the vase into the palm of her hand and, closing the other over it, tiptoed into the dining-room and stood behind Smith. Dora and he, engrossed in conversation, paid no attention to her. She put her cupped palms close to Smith's ear and, shaking them vigorously, shouted: "Snakes!" The result was such as Susie had not anticipated. With a shriek which was womanish in its shrillness, Smith sprang to his feet, all but upsetting the lamp in his violence. Unmixed horror was written upon his face. The girl herself shrank back at what she had done; then, holding out several rattles for inspection, she said: "Looks like you don't care for snakes." "You--you little----" Only Susie guessed the unspeakable epithet he meant to use. Her eyes warned him, and, too, he remembered Dora in time. He said instead, with a slight laugh of confusion: "Snakes scares me, and rat-traps goin' off." The color had not yet returned to his face when a knock came upon the door. In response to Susie's call, a tall stranger stepped inside--a stranger wide of shoulder, and with a kind of grim strength in his young face. From the unnatural brightness of the eyes of Susie and of Smith, and their still tense attitudes, Ralston sensed the fact that something had happened. He returned Smith's unpleasant look with a gaze as steady as his own. Then his eyes fell upon Dora and lingered there. She had sprung to her feet and was still standing. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes luminous, and the soft lamplight burnishing her brown hair made the moment one of her best. Smith saw the frank admiration in the stranger's look. "May I stop here to-night?" He addressed Dora. He had the characteristic Western gravity of manner and expression, the distinguishing definiteness of purpose. Though the quality of his voice, its modulation, bespoke the man of poise and education, the accent was unmistakably of the West. "There's a bunk-house." It was Smith who answered. His unuttered epithet still rankled; Susie turned upon him with insulting emphasis: "And you'd better get out to it!" "Are you the boss here?" The stranger put the question to Smith with cool politeness. "What I say _goes!_" Smith looked marvellously ugly.