King came the day after the guests arrived for a talk with Ben.  Gloria knew that he was coming and was coolly prepared to meet him.  She gave him a bright little nod, friendly enough but casual, and resumed her lively chatter with her friends.  King went off with Gaynor.  That night there was no moon, but the stars, those great glittering stars of the Sierra, made the hour softly palpitant.  King betook himself to smoke upon that particular, remembered corner of the porch; Gloria, slipping out from a dance, felt the little thrill that would not down when she found him there.  In their two chairs, necessarily close together since the nook was so cosily narrow, her shoulder now and then brushing his as she moved, the faint fragrances from her gown and hair blown across his face by the night breeze—­for them his pipe hastily laid aside—­they sat talking softly or in a pleasant silence.  The next morning—­the matter seemed to arrange itself with very little help from either—­they were to have a ride together This time they would take their lunch.  When they said good-night Gloria impulsively gave him her two hands; he remembered how she had done that the first time he had seen her.  Her face was lifted up to his; in the starlight he saw her eyes shining softly, gloriously; he saw her mouth, the lips barely apart.  For an instant his hands shut down hard on hers; he felt the faint pressure of her own in return.  When they heard her mother in the doorway calling, “Gloria, where are you?” they started apart.  A strange and unanalysed sense of secrecy had fallen upon them; Gloria whispered, “Good-night, Mark,” and then calling, “Here I am, mamma; just cooling off,” she went skipping down the porch, slipped her arm about her mother, and carried her back into the house.

* * * * *

Before the new day was fairly come they met in the fringe of pines.  Again they shook hands; again for an instant they stood as they had stood last night.  They were tremblingly close to the first kiss.  Suddenly Gloria, with her colour high and her eyes hidden under lashes which King marvelled at, lashes laid tenderly against her cheeks, pulled her hands out of his and began drawing on her gauntlets.  Gravely, as though here were a rite to be approached solemnly, he lifted her into the saddle.  They turned their horses and rode up the ridge among the trees.

They heard together the first sleepy twitterings of hidden birds; they saw the black shadows thinning; they watched the light come upon the peaks.  Ridges shook off the shadow cloaks, seemed to quiver as they awoke to the new day, grew flushed and rosy.  The chill of the early morning air was like wine, sparkling, tingling in the blood.  The smell of resinous woods was insistent, the fine bouquet to the rare vintage.  The day, the world, themselves—­all were young together—­all awakening to the full, true, and triumphant meaning of life.  They rode a mile with never a spoken word but in a never-broken communion; then it was Gloria who spoke first, saying, as she had said once before:  “I love it!”