"Why ?" Barry Houston could not answer the self-imposed question.

He could only stand and stare after her and the trotting, rolling Indian, as they moved down the road and disappeared in the shadow of the aspens at the next curve.

She had seen him; there could be no doubt of that.
She had recognized him; more, Houston felt sure that she had mounted her horse that she might better be able to pass him and greet him with a formal nod instead of a more friendly acknowledgment.

And this was the girl who, an afternoon before, had sat beside him on the worn old bench at the side of Ba'tiste's cabin and picked thorns from the palm of his hand,--thorns from the stems of wild roses which she had brought him! The enigma was too great for Houston.

He could only gasp with the suddenness of it and sink back into a dullness of outlook and viewpoint which he had lost momentarily.