The sunshine was on her bare head. The rich chestnut-brown of her hair showed such lustre and depth of color in the broad light, such gloss and fineness. And how it waved and curled as it fell down on her shoulders, with an electrical isolation of filaments toward the ends, where they seemed to lose the expression of color, and gave only cloudy, indefinite effects that left no opportunity for strong, crude lines about her head. Her fair skin was fairer still in the radiance. Her eyes were dazzled; she held one hand above them, and their expression, as she looked at him from the shadow, might have mollified aught less wrapped in self than this very young man. To him it all meant that Marcella knew that she had given cause for offense, and was wishing to make it up by laughing him out of his just indignation; for a half laugh curved her lips, and brought out a dimple in her cheek, to fluctuate there with her effort to ridicule him. She came silently, looking tall and slight, fit to be swayed even by a gentle wind, and stood beside him in the narrow path; glancing at him for a moment, then turning and gazing casually from under her hand, that still shielded her smiling eyes, now at one and then another of the great ranges, shimmering azure through the sun, save when a white cloud in the sky set a dimly purple image of itself a-scudding as impalpably over the mountains. He was impelled to speak first. He did so in a tone of grave and measured constraint, as one who will not resent, though feeling offense. “What favior did ye wanter ax me, Marcelly?” Her eyes rested still longer on the mountains; then she fixed them on his face, altogether unmoved by his grave tone, except, perchance, to laughter. She took hold of the barrel of his rifle with her left hand. “I want ye ter loan me this rifle o’ yourn, Andy. I want ter shoot a old hawk ez hev been a-flusterin’ round the hens an’ chickens lately.” He stood, blankly astonished, for a moment. “Whyn’t ye borry yer dad’s?” he demanded, in surly suspicion of her motives. Once more she turned her shaded eyes upon the mountains. “Oh, kase,” she said, altogether unembarrassed by the expression of stern and serious inquiry in his eyes, “ye gin me mos’ o’ the chickens I hev got, an’ mebbe it mought be good luck ef I war ter shoot the hawk with yer own gun.”