"No, honey, no--why should I hate you?" Her words were earnest. But her voice--something had changed it. And she felt a strange hurt, a vague hurt that seemed to have no cause. Marylyn raised herself on an elbow. "He liked me--once," she said. "He showed it, just as _plain_. It was right here, that day the cattle went by." Dallas got up. She had begun to tremble visibly; her breath was coming short, as if she had been running. But the younger girl did not notice. "He stayed away so long," she went on. "Then, to-day when he came--you remember, Dallas,--he just said a word or two to me, and laughed at me because I was afraid. And--and I saw that I was wrong, and I--I saw--he liked--_you_." "_Me!_" Dallas turned. She felt the blood come driving into her face. She felt that strange hurt ease--and go in a rush of joyful feeling. Then, she understood the cause of it--and why she had trembled--why that day had been the happiest of her life. Of a sudden she became conscious that Marylyn's eyes were upon her with a look of pathetic reproach. She began to laugh. "Nonsense! honey," she said. "Don't be silly! Me! Why, he'd never like a great big gawk like me!" "But--but----" "Me, with my red hair--you know it is kinda red--and my face, sunburned as a' Indian--hands all calloused like--like a man's." She turned back to the dusk through the window. "Oh, no, not me." "But you looked so funny just now." "Did I? Did I?" Dallas stammered out her reason: "Well--well, that was because--because I thought you was going to say it was a soldier." She laughed--nervously. "But it was Mr. Lounsbury you meant, honey, wasn't it?" The suspicion that had troubled the mind of the younger girl was allayed. "Why, Dallas, how could you think such a thing about me! Like a soldier? My, no! It was Mr. Lounsbury--but he don't like me." She got up and went to the foot of her father's bunk. When she reappeared, she was carrying the soap-box that held her belongings. On the robe once more, she took out and held up to the light of the fire two books and a strip of beaded cloth. The elder left the window and stood beside her. "These are what he gave me," went on Marylyn, putting forward the books. "And this"--she showed the beadwork--"he asked me to make for him. But to-day," mournfully, "he didn't even speak of it." Dallas leaned down and touched her lips to the other's hair. "Baby sister, what did you expect him to do? Hold up a man with one hand and--and reach out for a present with the other?" Marylyn put away the box. "Anyway, he don't like me." "Like you? Why, he couldn't help it. There isn't a sweeter, prettier girl on the prairies than my little house-keeper." "He called me the prairie princess," declared Marylyn, but with lingering doubt. "Now, that shows," said the elder girl. "Don't you worry another second. When he comes again, you'll see."