The breeze had blown his soft, brown hair about his face as he stood with his hat in his hand, and Bess, at last finding her tongue, answered: “I may not look well, Mr. Davis, but I certainly combed my hair, which is more than you have done.” “If mine is as becoming, blown into my eyes, as yours is this very moment, then I shall never comb it again.” He knew the girl was trying to cover her embarrassment, and he greatly relieved her when he turned to address his remarks to Mrs. West, from whom he learned that they were going to Kalispell for a few days. “Yes, I also am going. I’m certainly most fortunate to have such pleasant company,” Davis said. When Bess heard this she longed to go back to the ranch, or go with Mrs. White. She could not analyze the strange feeling which came over her when near this man. While he fascinated her, still he repulsed her; while she did not fear him, still she felt ill at ease; while he interested her, still she fought against it. Everyone was aboard; the whistle shrieked its departing signal, and the plank was being pulled onto the boat when Bess hurriedly whispered to Mrs. West, who was alarmed and astonished at her really pale countenance, “Please—dearie—is it too late? May I go home to the ranch? I—really feel that I do not care to go—now—” Suspicious moisture gathered under the half-closed lids. “If you are ill, dear, certainly we shall go home. Mr. Davis, I fear Bess is not well. Will you ask them to hold the boat while we go ashore?” He sought the girl’s pale face anxiously, and said: “Certainly, Mrs. West, and if I may I will assist you in taking her to the ranch.” “No—no,” cried the girl hurriedly. “You—I am quite well and will go on,” and she ran quickly up the stairway into the tiny cabin and flung herself upon a couch. Mrs. West and Mr. Davis looked at each other for a moment, and then he said to her very seriously, “Mrs. West, you understand as well as I do, that the little girl is fighting—fighting against the dictates of her own heart. She will reciprocate sooner or later and love me as I do her. May I go to her and speak to her now?” “Do not be so impatient, Mr. Davis. Remember she is still an unknowing child, one who is afraid of strangers. One may cherish a rose-bud, but let him attempt to open the petals before they are formed and grown into rose-leaves, he will discover only bruised and broken fragrance in his hand.” “Your philosophy is true; but it is hard to curb one’s impatience. I need her, Mrs. West, and since these days of pain which I spent in your home, the torture of being away from her is hard to bear.” She could not doubt the sincerity of his confession, as she listened to his low, impassioned words. “Will you help me, Mrs. West? Tell me you will help me in teaching her to care for me!” “All I can reply, Mr. Davis, is that my first concern is and shall be the happiness of Bess,” and Mrs. West left him with this rather unsatisfactory reply.