"They're brown, of course, and calloused--a little--but they are not big, and they are beautifully modeled." He looked at her speculatively. "I am wondering how you would look in conventional dress." "Do you mean--" She hesitated. "I'd look like a gawk in one of those low-necked outfits. I'd never dare--and those tight skirts would sure cripple me." "Oh no, they wouldn't. You'd have to modify your stride a little; but you'd negotiate it. You're equal to anything." "You're making fun of me!" "No, I'm not. I'm in earnest. You're the kind of American girl that can go anywhere and do anything. My sisters would mortgage their share of the golden streets for your abounding health--and so would I." "You are all right now," she smiled. "You don't look or talk as you did." "It's this sunlight." He lifted a spread hand as if to clutch and hold something. "I feel it soaking into me like some magical oil. No more moping and whining for me. I've proved that hardship is good for me." "Don't crow till you're out of the woods. It's a long ride down the hill, and going down is harder on the tenderfoot than going up." "I'm no longer a tenderfoot. All I need is another trip like this with you and I shall be a master trailer." All this was very sweet to her, and though she knew they should be going, she lingered. Childishly reckless of the sinking sun, she played with the wild flowers at her side and listened to his voice in complete content. He was right. The hour was too beautiful to be shortened, although she saw no reason why others equally delightful might not come to them both. He was more of the lover than he had ever been before, that she knew, and in the light of his eyes all that was not girlish and charming melted away. She forgot her heavy shoes, her rough hands and sun-tanned face, and listened with wondering joy and pride to his words, which were of a fineness such as she had never heard spoken--only books contained such unusual and exquisite phrases. A cloud passing across the sun flung down a shadow of portentous chill and darkness. She started to her feet with startled recollection of the place and the hour. "We _must_ be going--at once!" she commanded. "Not yet," he pleaded. "It's only a cloud. The sun is coming out again. I have perfect confidence in your woodcraft. Why not spend another night on the trail? It may be our last trip together." He tempted her strongly, so frank and boyish and lovable were his glances and his words. But she was vaguely afraid of herself, and though the long ride at the moment seemed hard and dull, the thought of her mother waiting decided her action. "No, no!" she responded, firmly. "We've wasted too much time already. We must ride." He looked up at her with challenging glance. "Suppose I refuse--suppose I decide to stay here?"