It was of fine linen with a border of lace, and so soft that he could have hidden it in the palm of his hand.

From it rose a faint, sweet scent of the wild rock violet.

He knew that it was rock violet, because more than once he had crushed the blossoms between his hands.

He thrust the bit of fabric in the breast of his flannel shirt, and walked swiftly up the coulee.
A hundred yards above him the stream turned abruptly, and here a strip of forest meadow grew to the water's edge.

He sprang up the low bank, and stood face to face with the girl.
She had heard his approach, and was waiting for him, a little smile of welcome on her lips.