The Claim Jumpers

"I can hear you quite well. You'll have to talk from there, or else

keep still."

"That isn't fair!" persisted the young man, adopting a tone of

argument. "You're a girl----"

"Stop there! You are wrong to start with. Did you think that a creature

who could fly to the tops of the rocks was a mere girl? Not at all."

"What do you mean?" asked the easily bewildered Bennington.

"What I say. I'm not a girl."

"What are you then?"

"A sun fairy."

"A sun fairy?"

"Yes; a real live one. See that cloud over toward the sun? The nice

downy one, I mean. That's my couch. I sleep on it all night. I've got

it near the sun so that it will warm up, you see."

"I see," cried Bennington. He could recognise foolery--provided it were

ticketed plainly enough. He sat down on the flat rock before indicated,

and clasped his knee with his hands, prepared to enjoy more. "Is that

your throne up there, Sun Fairy?" he asked. She had withdrawn her head

from sight.

"It is," her voice came down to him in grave tones.

"It must be a very nice one."

"The nicest throne you ever saw."

"I never saw one, but I've often heard that thrones were unpleasant

things."

"I am sitting, foolish mortal," said she, in tones of deep

commiseration, "on a soft, thick cushion of moss--much more

comfortable, I imagine, than hard, flat rocks. And the nice warm sun

is shining on me--it must be rather chilly in the woods to-day. And

there is a breeze blowing from the Big Horn--old rocks are always damp

and stuffy in the shade. And I am looking away out over the Hills--I

hope some people enjoy the sight of piles of quartzite."

"Cruel sun fairy!" cried Bennington. "Why do you tantalize me so with

the delights from which you debar me? What have I done?"

There was a short silence.

"Can't you think of anything you've done?" asked the voice,

insinuatingly.

Bennington's conscience-stricken memory stirred. It did not seem so

ridiculous, under the direct charm of the fresh young voice that came

down through the summer air from above, like a dove's note from a

treetop, to apologize to Lawton's girl. The incongruity now was in

forcing into this Arcadian incident anything savouring of

conventionality at all. It had been so idyllic, this talk of the sun

fairy and the cloud; so like a passage from an old book of legends,

this dainty episode in the great, strong, Western breezes, under the

great, strong, Western sky. Everything should be perfect, not to be

blamed.

"Do sun fairies accept apologies?" he asked presently, in a subdued

voice.

"They might."

"This particular sun fairy is offered one by a man who is sorry."