Bob Hampton of Placer

Miss Spencer's eyes evinced a growing interest.

"Was he real nice-looking?" she asked.

Naida's voice faltered. "Ye--es," she said. "I thought so. He--he

looked like he was a man."

"How old are you, Naida?"

"Nearly eighteen."

Miss Spencer leaned impulsively forward, and clasped the other's hands,

her whole soul responding to this suggestion of a possible romance, a

vision of blighted hearts. "Why, it is perfectly delightful," she

exclaimed. "I had no idea it was so serious, and really I don't in the

least blame you. You love him, don't you, Naida?"

The girl flashed a shy look into the beaming, inquisitive face. "I

don't know," she confessed, soberly. "I have not even seen him for

such a long time; but--but, I guess, he is more to me than any one

else--"

"Not seen him? Do you mean to say Mr. Hampton is not here in Glencaid?

Why, I am so sorry; I was hoping to meet him."

"He went away the same night I came here to live."

"And you never even hear from him?"

Naida hesitated, but the frankly displayed interest of the other won

her complete girlish confidence. "Not directly, but Mr. Herndon

receives money from him for me. He does n't let your aunt know

anything about it, because she got angry and refused to accept any pay

from him. He is somewhere over yonder in the Black Range."

Miss Spencer shook back her hair with a merry laugh, and clasped her

hands. "Why, it is just the most delightful situation I ever heard

about. He is just certain to come back after you, Naida. I wouldn't

miss being here for anything."

They were still sitting there, when the notes of a softly touched

guitar stole in through the open window. Both glanced about in

surprise, but Miss Spencer was first to recover speech.

"A serenade! Did you ever!" she whispered. "Do you suppose it can be

he?" She extinguished the lamp and knelt upon the floor, peering

eagerly forth into the brilliant moonlight. "Why, Naida, what do you

think? It's Mr. Moffat. How beautifully he plays!"

Naida, her face pressed against the other window, gave vent to a single

note of half-suppressed laughter. "There 's going to be something

happening," she exclaimed. "Oh, Miss Spencer, come here quick--some

one is going to turn on the hydraulic."

Miss Spencer knelt beside her. Moffat was still plainly visible, his

pale face upturned in the moonlight, his long silky mustaches slightly

stirred by the soft air, his fingers touching the strings; but back in

the shadows of the bushes was seen another figure, apparently engaged

upon some task with feverish eagerness. To Miss Spencer all was

mystery.