With a sigh of content he stretched himself on the sun-warmed loam. His glance swept up the gulch, a sword cleft in the hills, passed over the grove of young pines through which he had recently descended, and came back to the slim Irish girl sitting erectly on the turf. "It's sometimes a mighty good world, neighbor," he said. "I'm thinking that myself," she admitted, laughter welling softly out of her. The sun lit the tips of the pines, so that they looked like burnished lances in battle array, poured its beams over the scarred hillside, and bathed the little valley in effulgent glory. "You can always find it somewhere," he said with deep content, leaning on an elbow indolently. She asked for no antecedent to his pronoun. What he meant was not ambiguous to her. "If one knows where to look for it," she added softly. "That's the trouble. We get so busy with our little everyday troubles that we forget to look. But the joy of life is always there if we'll forget our grouch and see it." "Yes--if having eyes we see." "I'm comforted a heap to know that you believe in me--even if I'm not Captain Kilmeny," he assured her with his slow rippling laugh. Had he been looking at her he would have seen the telltale color tide her cheeks. "If that is a comfort you are welcome to it. I might have known the idea of connecting you with such a thing was folly." He glanced whimsically at her. "Don't be too sure of me, neighbor. I'm likely to disappoint you. What one person thinks is right another knows is wrong. You'd have to make a heap of allowances for me if I were your friend." "Isn't that what friendship is for--to make allowances?" "You've found that out already, have you?" The long-lashed lids fell to her cheeks in self-defense. Not for worlds would she have had him guess the swift message ready to leap out toward him. He seemed to be drawing her soul to his unconsciously. Tingling in every nerve, athrob with an emotion new and inexplicable, she drew a long slow breath and turned her head away. A hot shame ran like quicksilver through her veins. She whipped herself with her own scorn. Was she the kind of girl that gave her love to a man who did not want it? His next words brought to her the shock she needed, the effect of a plunge into icy water on a warm day. "What about your friends--what about Miss Seldon--did she believe me guilty too?" He could not quite keep the self-consciousness out of his voice. "Hadn't you better ask her that?" she suggested. In spite of his interest in their talk, Kilmeny's alert eyes had swept again and again the trail leading up the gulch. He did not intend to be caught napping by the officers. Now he rose and offered her a hand up. "Your friends are coming."