She stood erect and flashed him a look that startled the boldness from his young eyes. "Mebbe I am, Mill," she said, gently, "but I bet, even ef you do think so, you wouldn’t spare the sorrel long ’nough fur me to ride ter Rainier." "No," he answered, flushing, "no, I wouldn’t. She ain’t well ’nough broke. You oughter not ask me." "I’d resk her," she urged still, sweetly, and smiled into his troubled face; "I’d love ter ride her, Mill. But," she went on after a pause, and shrugging her shoulders, drew herself aloof, "you’re jest like Jake. He’s turrible ’fraid I’d get Ketchem killed." "And yourself, too," he said warmly. "But Uncle Eben," she added, "he ’lows I kin ride. He ain’t so powerful scared ’bout—_Ginger_." With this she laughed, her hands on her hips, her elbows shaking, and Thornton, himself laughing deeply, in keen appreciation, turned to set his foot in the stirrup. "You’re all right, Samanthy," he said. "You’re all right, but I ’low it wa’n’t a peach I meant; it was jest er sassy sweetbrier rose. It’s so blame’ innercent lookin’ an’ soft, but er feller can’t tech it ’ithout feelin’ ther thorns." The horse started, but she tripped after him a step to say softly, "Say, Mill, why don’t you call it eglantine?" He wheeled. "Who calls it eglantine?" She laid a warning finger on her lip. "Mr. Stratton. But I never sensed what he was talkin’ ’bout tell he showed me that ther sweetbrier growin’ ther by the table." "Was he meanin’ you?" She started back to the reflector, but paused to nod her head over her shoulder; a hundred imps danced in her eyes. "I’d love ter hear you call me that, Mill. My stars—eglantine!" Her lips bubbled laughter; it followed him, teasing, taunting, as he rode on through the wood. Mose, passing him, stalked into the open and towards the farther group. Kingsley waved his hand in careless recognition, and rising, threw back his tent-fly and drew out the blankets. "Well, Mose," he said, "what do you think of these?" The boy bent to feel their texture gravely. "Dey ess plent’ good ’nough blankets, monjee, ya-as, an Yelm Jim ees tell me—_go_. But Tyee Sahgalee ees goin’ be hy-as mad. Sacré, it ees pos’ble he ees keel you. Den, merci, some more white man doan’ lak go Rainier." He turned with this and stalked swiftly back into the gloom. Alice rose in astonishment. Kingsley laughed. "If I should lose myself over a precipice," he said, "or drop into a crevasse, I suppose he would believe it was all the vengeance of his Indian God." "But," she answered, "his father is a devout Catholic. The priest is making an acolyte of Mose." She sank back, helplessly, into her place. "I—I suppose it’s impossible for him to grasp everything"—she was thinking of Laramie and the globe—"at once."