“I know now where the original Garden of Eden was!” Gloria, turning to look back at him as he came on through a delightful flowery upland meadow, sat her horse gracefully upon a slight hillock, herself and her restless mount bathed in sunshine, her cheeks warm with the flush upon them, her lips red with coursing life, her eyes dancing.  “It’s perfectly lovely.  It’s pure heavenly!”

King nodded and smiled.  He was not given to many words, grown taciturn as are mountaineers inevitably, trained in long habit to approve in silence of that which pleased him most.  So, while Gloria’s eager tongue tripped along as busily as the brooks they forded, he was for the most part silent.  An extended arm to point out a big snow-plant, blood-red against a little heap of snow, was as eloquent as the spoken word.  Thus he indicated much that might have passed unnoticed by Gloria, keenly enjoying her lively admiration.

To-day he chose always the easier trails, since with the good horses under them they had ample time to come to Loony Honeycutt’s place well before midday.  Also they stopped frequently, King making an excuse of showing her points of interest; the tiny valley where one could be sure of a glimpse of a brown bear, the grazing-lands of mountain deer, the pass into the cliff-bound hiding-place of the picturesque highwaymen of an earlier day whence they drove stolen horses into Nevada, where they secreted other horses stolen in Nevada and to be disposed of down in the Sacramento Valley.  There lasted until this very day the ruins of their rock house, snuggled into the mountains under their lookout-point.

“It would be fun,” said Gloria, the spell of the wilderness mysteries upon her, her eyes half wistful and altogether serious, “to be lost out here.  Just to get far, far away from people and ever so close to the big old mountains.  Wouldn’t it?” And a few minutes later she drew in her horse and cried out softly:  “Listen!” She herself was listening breathlessly.  “It sounds like the ocean ever so far off.  Or—­or like shouting voices a million miles away.  Or like the mountains themselves whispering.  It is hard to believe, isn’t it? that it is just the wind in the pines.”

Another time, while, under the pretext of letting their horses blow, King had suggested a short halt to give the girl a chance to rest, she said with abruptness: 

“What do you think of Mr. Gratton?”

Already she knew Mark King well enough to realize that he would either refuse to answer or would speak his mind without beating about the bush.

“I don’t like him,” said King.

Gloria looked thoughtful.

“Neither do I,” she said.  “Not up here in the mountains.  And down in San Francisco I thought him rather splendid.  What is more, if we were whisked back to San Francisco this minute, I’d probably think him fine again.”

She appeared interested in the consideration, and when they rode on was silent, obviously turning the matter over and over in mind.