A KISS AND AN ARREST A month had passed, a swift-flying time full of new life.

Wonderful it was for me to think I was still in Diane Sampson's employ.
It was the early morning hour of a day in May.

The sun had not yet grown hot.

Dew like diamond drops sparkled on the leaves and grass.

The gentle breeze was clear, sweet, with the song of larks upon it.
And the range, a sea of gray-green growing greener, swept away westward in rolling ridges and hollows, like waves to meet the dark, low hills that notched the horizon line of blue.
I was sitting on the top bar of the corral fence and before me stood three saddled horses that would have gladdened any eye.