“I am not Dicky’s keeper.” The light glows and glows in his face. “She’s got one, though, and it was odd we should all three have left town together. I smoked like a furnace all the way down as an excuse to keep away from them. Caroline”—Bobby’s arms close about me—“I am not Dicky’s—I am yours.” Walking home in the twilight that is gray and tender as a dove’s breast, Bobby tells me that he _was_ afraid the night he ran away. He says he has tried and tried not to love me—that men like him should never marry—that they should live alone on the top of the Flat Iron. “But it is bigger than I,” he says, gravely. “It has swept me to your feet.” “To my heart,” I correct, happily. The hack lumbers around the curve, descends upon us. At sight of us Dicky and the strange young man who sits on the back seat with her—John and Ellinor are on the middle seat—roar with laughter. “You sly fox!” Dicky cries. “How did you get here? We left him on the train, Caroline, and he sent his regards to you—and he said he was on his way to Colorado.” “I am,” Bobby boldly declares. “I stopped by to see if Caroline would go with me. As to my getting here first, I live in New York. As rapid transit as is obtainable, say I.” Dicky flings herself into my arms. “You owe it all to me,” she declares. “I found him deadly tiresome.” She beamed on Bobby. “All his talk was about you. “You sly fox,” she whirled on him again. “You didn’t need to have me tell you about Caroline. You were hearing from her all the time, now, weren’t you? Why didn’t you tell me, Caroline?” “I—I—I——” I stammered. Bobby isn’t timid, he’s bold as a lion. “The reason is obvious,” he declares. “I wouldn’t let her. Had you known that I heard, too, it would have changed everything.” The others descend from the hack. It goes on with Dicky’s baggage. I realize that John has been an unnecessarily long time helping Ellinor out of the carriage; but there are no surprises left in the world. I greet Dicky’s lover. As we take our leisurely way home I don’t even wonder what mammy will have for supper. _May 30th._ “_Day’s at the morn Morning’s at seven; The hillside’s dew-pearled_”—— I am just back from taking a look at old Camel Back. The morning’s like an opal—it’s all a shifting mist shot through with sunshine. None of the mountains have shaken off their last night’s mist-blankets but that brave old blessed Camel Back. He knew I’d be up, and he gave me royal greeting. “Well,” he seemed to say, “haven’t I poured all the treasures of the earth perfumed with all the scents of Araby into your outstretched hands?”