“Where you live?” she asked the child at last off-handedly, but he did not answer. He was picking the crumbs he had dropped from the front of his bleached blue shirt—the pitiful excuse for a shirt, without sleeves, if one excepted the strings that hung from the shoulders, without buttons and all but falling from the scrawny little body underneath. As she watched him Nance’s heart ached for his poverty, for his woe-begone appearance. She was filled with a cautious excitement. The Collie had sat down beside the boy, who had loosed his hold by now. It seemed that hostilities were relaxed, though she took no chances. “_I_ live down on the flats by the river,” she said presently. “I get lots of fish from these pools. They’re awfully good, too.” The child nodded. “I know,” he said, “we do, too.” “Who catches ’em?” asked Nance. “Not you?” He shook his head. “No. Brand does.” “Who’s Brand?” she followed quickly, but once more the child shook his unkempt head. “Just Brand,” he said. Nance saw that further questioning would not do, therefore, she fell back on the wiles of woman, the blandishments of sex. She rocked on her heels, holding her ankles in her hands and smiled with the winsome sweetness which so few in the world knew she possessed. “I like little boys,” she said, “and I haven’t any. But I’ve got a pony. Name’s Buckskin.” “Brand’s got one, too,” said the child, “only Diamond ain’t a pony—he’s a horse. He’s a big horse. Brand has got to swing me pretty high to get me up. When we ride——” But again some inner warning stopped him, some stern habit closed his mouth. Nance held out a hand. “If you’ll come sit in my lap a little while,” she coaxed, “I’ll tell you all about the place where I live. Will you?” The little fellow twisted in shy indecision. “Don’t like me??” Nance asked aggrievedly. “I like you——” She smiled again and reached the hand a little nearer. Diffidently the child took it—edged up—hesitated. She was wise enough to not insist, even to relax her pull a bit. True to the law of the contrary which rules the world of childhood, he sidled closer—leaned against her shoulder—and the girl gently folded him in her arms. At the feel of the thin little body, all bones and skin under the dilapidated garments, the protective thrill of potential motherhood went through her and tears swam suddenly in her eyes. A neglected pair, or one smitten by dire poverty, she thought pitifully—this lone little chap hiding among the rocks and guarded so well by the skeleton dog. The dog, by the way, had risen belligerently to his feet at the child’s advance, and his eyes were gleaming again at this unlooked-for familiarity with a total stranger. “Call him, sonny,” she said, and the child obeyed.