The Claim Jumpers

She awoke and opened her eyes slowly, and looked at him without

blinking. The sun had gone nearly to the ridge top, and a Wilson's

thrush was celebrating with his hollow notes the artificial twilight

of its shadow.

She smiled at him a little vaguely, the mists of sleep clouding her

eyes. It is the unguarded moment, the instant of awakening. At such an

instant the mask falls from before the features of the soul. I do not

know what Bennington saw.

"Mary, Mary!" he cried uncontrolledly, "I love you! I love you, girl."

He had never before seen any one so vexed. She sat up at once.

"Oh, why did you have to say that!" she cried angrily. "Why did you

have to spoil things! Why couldn't you have let it go along as it was

without bringing that into it!"

She arose and began to walk angrily up and down, kicking aside the

sticks and stones as she encountered them.

"I was just beginning to like you, and now you do this. Oh, I am so

angry!" She stamped her little foot. "I thought I had found a man for

once who could be a good friend to me, whom I could meet unguardedly,

and behold! the third day he tells me this!"

"I am sorry," stammered Bennington, his new tenderness fleeing,

frightened, into the inner recesses of his being. "I beg your pardon, I

didn't know--Don't! I won't say it again. Please!"

The declaration had been manly. This was ridiculously boyish. The girl

frowned at him in two minds as to what to do.

"Really, truly," he assured her.

She laughed a little, scornfully. "Very well, I'll give you one more

chance. I like you too well to drop you entirely." (What an air of

autocracy she took, to be sure!) "You mustn't speak of that again. And

you must forget it entirely." She lowered at him, a delicious picture

of wrath.

They saddled the horses and took their way homeward in silence. The

tenderness put out its flower head from the inner sanctuary. Apparently

the coast was clear. It ventured a little further. The evening was very

shadowy and sweet and musical with birds. The tenderness boldly invaded

Bennington's eyes, and spoke, oh, so timidly, from his lips.

"I will do just as you say," it hesitated, "and I'll be very, very

good indeed. But am I to have no hope at all?"

"Why can't you keep off that standpoint entirely?"

"Just that one question; then I will."

"Well," grudgingly, "I suppose nothing on earth could keep the average

mortal from hoping; but I can't answer that there is any ground for

it."

"When can I speak of it again?"

"I don't know--after the Pioneer's Picnic."

"That is when you cease to be a mystery, isn't it?"