"Well, I'd like to keep you; but I don't know how it will be. I won't stand any of their nonsense,"--he jerked his head toward the camp; "I'm going to send over to Aliso Canon for a wagon-load of pickers. I'm pretty certain I can get them, but they'll all be men; you might find it a little unpleasant." "Who are they?" asked Em. "Only a lot of ranchers picked up over the neighborhood," said the foreman. "I think I can find enough men and boys who are through harvesting. I'll try anyway." "Will you be here all the time?" asked the girl. "All of to-morrow and most of Friday," he answered, wondering a little. "Well, I guess if you don't care, I'll stay; I guess they won't hurt me,"--the wraith of a smile flitted across her face. "All right." The foreman urged his horse forward. "The Wickershams must be hard pressed," he said to himself; "the girl looks pale. Confound those young rascals!" Across at the camp Em could hear laughter and snatches of song. The soft rustle of the grape-leaves in the tepid breeze seemed to emphasize the stillness about her. Now and then a quail, tilting its queer little crest, scurried across the furrows and whirred out of sight. Pink-footed doves ran along the edge of the vineyard, mourning plaintively. The girl worked on without faltering, looking down the valley now and then through a blur that was not haze, and seeing always something there that dulled the pain of her loneliness. The day wore on. Em had eaten her lunch alone, in the shadow of the cypress hedge. As the afternoon advanced and the sea-breeze wandered over the mountains in fitful gusts, the campers trooped homeward, still laughing and calling to each other with reckless shouts. Em straightened her aching limbs, and watched them as they went. 'Rene's pink dress fluttered close to the tallest form among them, loitering a little, and standing out in silhouette against the afternoon sky at the end of the straggling procession as it disappeared over the hilltop. IV. It was Friday evening, and Em laid five silver dollars on the kitchen table beside her mother. "You can give that to Ben," she said wearily. Mrs. Wickersham glanced from the money to her daughter's dusty shoes, and set, colorless face. "Emmy, I'm afraid you've overdone," she said with a start. "No, I haven't," answered the girl without flinching; "it's been a little hard yesterday and to-day, and I'm tired, that's all. Don't tell Ben." "Are you too tired to go to the church sociable this evening?" pursued the mother anxiously. "Yes, I believe I am." "I saw Steve Elliott and 'Rene Burnham driving that way a few minutes ago. I thought they was over at the camp." Mrs. Wickersham had resumed her work and had her back toward her daughter. "They weren't there to-day," said Em listlessly. "Does she go with him much?" There was a rising resentment in Mrs. Wickersham's voice. Em glanced at her anxiously. "I don't know," she faltered.