She was remarkably beautiful, he thought; and was quite sure the roses in the garden had no petals pinker or softer than her cheeks, and was sure the water rippling in the little, grassy orchard canals was no clearer than her brown eyes, or the sky more serene than her brow.

She was not in the least proud or vain or haughty, as he imagined when he first beheld her at the ford.

He had had doubts of that after her kindly treatment of his dying dog Mike.

And now to-day he knew that such an opinion did her an injustice, was absurd.
Louise, too, was thinking as they strolled about.

Which of the two girls on Sarita Creek did he love?
For Charlie Menocal had said that he was infatuated with one.