Stewart was riding in on his black horse.  He had been absent on an important mission, and his duty had taken him to the international boundary-line.  His presence home long before he was expected was particularly gratifying to Madeline, for it meant that his mission had been brought to a successful issue.  Once more, for the hundredth time, the man’s reliability struck Madeline.  He was a doer of things.  The black horse halted wearily without the usual pound of hoofs on the gravel, and the dusty rider dismounted wearily.  Both horse and rider showed the heat and dust and wind of many miles.

Madeline advanced to the porch steps.  And Stewart, after taking a parcel of papers from a saddle-bag, turned toward her.

“Stewart, you are the best of couriers,” she said.  “I am pleased.”

Dust streamed from his sombrero as he doffed it.  His dark face seemed to rise as he straightened weary shoulders.

“Here are the reports, Miss Hammond,” he replied.

As he looked up to see her standing there, dressed to receive her Eastern guests, he checked his advance with a violent action which recalled to Madeline the one he had made on the night she had met him, when she disclosed her identity.  It was not fear nor embarrassment nor awkwardness.  And it was only momentary.  Yet, slight as had been his pause, Madeline received from it an impression of some strong halting force.  A man struck by a bullet might have had an instant jerk of muscular control such as convulsed Stewart.  In that instant, as her keen gaze searched his dust-caked face, she met the full, free look of his eyes.  Her own did not fall, though she felt a warmth steal to her cheeks.  Madeline very seldom blushed.  And now, conscious of her sudden color a genuine blush flamed on her face.  It was irritating because it was incomprehensible.  She received the papers from Stewart and thanked him.  He bowed, then led the black down the path toward the corrals.

“When Stewart looks like that he’s been riding,” said Florence.  “But when his horse looks like that he’s sure been burning the wind.”

Madeline watched the weary horse and rider limp down the path.  What had made her thoughtful?  Mostly it was something new or sudden or inexplicable that stirred her mind to quick analysis.  In this instance the thing that had struck Madeline was Stewart’s glance.  He had looked at her, and the old burning, inscrutable fire, the darkness, had left his eyes.  Suddenly they had been beautiful.  The look had not been one of surprise or admiration; nor had it been one of love.  She was familiar, too familiar with all three.  It had not been a gaze of passion, for there was nothing beautiful in that.  Madeline pondered.  And presently she realized that Stewart’s eyes had expressed a strange joy of pride.  That expression Madeline had never before encountered in the look of any man.  Probably its strangeness had made her notice it and accounted for her blushing.  The longer she lived among these outdoor men the more they surprised her.  Particularly, how incomprehensible was this cowboy Stewart!  Why should he have pride or joy at sight of her?