Upon the second morning she sat up when he awakened her, and would not permit him to bathe her face and feed her, which actions she performed for herself. She spoke little, however, and Venters was quick to catch in her the first intimations of thoughtfulness and curiosity and appreciation of her situation. He left camp and took Whitie out to hunt for rabbits. Upon his return he was amazed and somewhat anxiously concerned to see his invalid sitting with her back to a corner of the cave and her bare feet swinging out. Hurriedly he approached, intending to advise her to lie down again, to tell her that perhaps she might overtax her strength. The sun shone upon her, glinting on the little head with its tangle of bright hair and the small, oval face with its pallor, and dark-blue eyes underlined by dark-blue circles. She looked at him and he looked at her. In that exchange of glances he imagined each saw the other in some different guise. It seemed impossible to Venters that this frail girl could be Oldring’s Masked Rider. It flashed over him that he had made a mistake which presently she would explain. “Help me down,” she said. “But—are you well enough?” he protested. “Wait—a little longer.” “I’m weak—dizzy. But I want to get down.” He lifted her—what a light burden now!—and stood her upright beside him, and supported her as she essayed to walk with halting steps. She was like a stripling of a boy; the bright, small head scarcely reached his shoulder. But now, as she clung to his arm, the rider’s costume she wore did not contradict, as it had done at first, his feeling of her femininity. She might be the famous Masked Rider of the uplands, she might resemble a boy; but her outline, her little hands and feet, her hair, her big eyes and tremulous lips, and especially a something that Venters felt as a subtle essence rather than what he saw, proclaimed her sex. She soon tired. He arranged a comfortable seat for her under the spruce that overspread the camp-fire. “Now tell me—everything,” she said. He recounted all that had happened from the time of his discovery of the rustlers in the cañon up to the present moment. “You shot me—and now you’ve saved my life?” “Yes. After almost killing you I’ve pulled you through.” “Are you glad?” “I should say so!” Her eyes were unusually expressive, and they regarded him steadily; she was unconscious of that mirroring of her emotions and they shone with gratefulness and interest and wonder and sadness. “Tell me—about yourself?” she asked. He made this a briefer story, telling of his coming to Utah, his various occupations till he became a rider, and then how the Mormons had practically driven him out of Cottonwoods, an outcast. Then, no longer able to withstand his own burning curiosity, he questioned her in turn. “Are you Oldring’s Masked Rider?” “Yes,” she replied, and dropped her eyes.