But Sheila was neither looking nor listening.  She had heard horse’s hoofs.  Her cheeks flamed.  She ran to the door.  She stood on the porch and called.

“Cosme Hilliard!  Come back!”

There was no answer.  A few minutes later she came in, pale and puzzled.

“He didn’t even wave,” she said.  “He turned back in his saddle and stared at me.  He rode away staring at me.  Miss Blake—­what did you say to him?  You were talking a long time.”

“We were talking,” said Miss Blake, “about dogs and how to raise ’em.  And then he up and said goodbye.  Oh, Sheila, it’s all right.  He’ll be back when he’s got over being miffed.  Why, he expected you to come tumblin’ down the ladder head over heels to see him—­a handsome fellow like that!  Shucks!  Haven’t you ever dealt with the vanity of a young male before?  It’s as jumpy as a rabbit.  Get to work.”

And, as though to justify Miss Blake’s prophecy, just ten days later, Hilliard did come again.  It was a Sunday and Sheila had packed her lunch and gone off on “Nigger Baby” for the day.  The ostensible object of her ride was a visit to the source of Hidden Creek.  Really she was climbing away from a hurt.  She felt Hilliard’s wordless departure and prolonged absence keenly.  She had not—­to put it euphemistically—­many friends.  Her remedy was successful.  Impossible, on such a ride, to cherish minor or major pangs.  She rode into the smoky dimness of pine-woods where the sunlight burned in flecks and out again across the little open mountain meadows, jeweled with white and gold, blue and coral-colored flowers, a stained-glass window scattered across the ground.  From these glades she could see the forest, an army of tall pilgrims, very grave, going up, with long staves in their hands, to worship at a high shrine.  The rocks above were very grave, too, and grim and still against the even blue sky.  Across their purplish gray a waterfall streaked down struck crystal by the sun.  An eagle turned in great, swinging circles.  Sheila had an exquisite lifting of heart, a sense of entire fusion, body blessed by spirit, spirit blessed by body.  She felt a distinct pleasure in the flapping of her short, sun-filled hair against her neck, at the pony’s motion between her unhampered legs, at the moist warmth of his neck under her hand—­and this physical pleasure seemed akin to the ecstasy of prayer.

She came at last to a difficult, narrow, canon trail, where the pony hopped skillfully over fallen trees, until, for very weariness of his choppy, determined efforts, she dismounted, tied him securely, and made the rest of her climb on foot.  Hidden Creek tumbled near her and its voice swelled.  All at once, round the corner of a great wall of rock, she came upon the head.  It gushed out of the mountain-side in a tumult of life, not in a single stream, but in many frothy, writhing earth-snakes of foam.  She sat for an hour and watched this mysterious birth from