"I haven't yet ceased to wonder at these hills," rejoined Mrs. Kingdon. "We bought this ranch merely for a vacation place, but three-fourths of our time is spent up here, as we have become so attached to it. Mr. Kingdon is an artist, so he never tires of watching the hills and the sky. Sometimes we feel selfish with so much happiness--when there isn't enough to go around." "I know you take but a small percentage of what you give. Shall I tell my story now?" "I think I know it--or some of it, at least," replied Mrs. Kingdon, looking at her intently. Pen looked up with a startled gesture. "You do! How--" "When I was in your room just before dinner, it came to me where I had seen you before. It was about a year ago--in San Francisco--in a police station. I made inquiries; was interested in you and tried to see you, but we were suddenly called home. I should like to hear more about your life and what brought you to these hills." "I wish no one else need know it," she said entreatingly, when she had told her story in detail. "Kurt is surely entitled to know it _all_," replied Mrs. Kingdon. "I suppose he is; though I wish he didn't know as much as he already does. It isn't necessary to tell him to-night, is it? I am still tired in spite of my long rest." "To-morrow will do. If you like, I will tell him, and I wish you and he would leave the entire matter--about Jo and all--in my hands." "Most gladly," assented Pen. "But where is Jo?" "He is on a neighboring ranch--temporarily, only." "There is something else I should like to know. Why is Kurt so different from most men? Doesn't he ever look pleasant, or was his gloom all on my account?" "His life hasn't been exactly conducive to jollity. He was born in New England and brought up on pie and Presbyterianism by a spinstered aunt who didn't understand boys. He ran away and came to the West. He has been cattle-herder, cowboy and everything else typical of the hill country. We came here, tenderfooted, and were most fortunate in finding a foreman like Kurt Walters. He has a wonderful way of handling men. He is of good habits, forceful, keen; very gentle to old people and most adorable with children. We make him one of our household. There is the fortunate flaw that keeps him from being super-excellent; he is not merciful to wrongdoers and, as you say, he is too serious--almost moody. That is accounted for by the long night vigils of the cattlemen. They get a habit of inhibition that they never lose. I think the men find him very good company at times. There is one splendid thing about him. In spite of his rough life and the many years in which he has had opportunity to meet only the--misguided kind of women, he has never lost faith in his ideals of womanhood."