Before the artist could reply, the beautiful creatures came floating back as they had gone.  With a low exclamation of delight, the girl watched them as they circled, now, above her head, in their aerial waltz among the sunbeams and leafy boughs.  Then the man, watching, saw her—­unheeding his presence—­stretch her arms upward.  For a moment she stood, lightly poised, and then, with her wide, shining eyes fixed upon those gorgeously winged spirits whirling in the fragrant air, with her lips parted in smiling delight, she danced upon the smooth turf of the glade—­every step and movement in perfect harmony with the spirit of care-free abandonment that marked the movements of the butterflies that danced above her head.  Unmindful of the watching man, as her dainty companions themselves,—­forgetful of his presence,—­she yielded to the impulse to express her emotions in free, rhythmic movement.

Instinctively, Aaron King was silent—­standing motionless, as if he feared to startle her into flight.

Suddenly, as the girl danced—­her eyes always upon her winged companions—­the insects floated above the artist’s head, and she became conscious of his presence.  Her cheeks flushed and, laughing low,—­as she danced, lightly as a spirit,—­she impulsively stretched out her arms to him, in merry invitation—­as though challenging him to join her.

The gesture was as spontaneous and as innocent, in its freedom, as had been her offering of the gifts from mountain stream and bush.  But the man—­lured into forgetfulness of everything save the wild loveliness of the scene—­started toward her.  At his movement, a look of bewildered fear came into her face; but—­too startled to control her movements on the instant, and as though impelled by some hidden power—­she moved toward him—­blindly, unconsciously—­her eyes wide with that look of questioning fright.  He had almost reached her when, as though by an effort of her will, she stopped and stood still—­gazing into his face—­trembling in every limb.  Then, with a low cry, she sank down in a frightened, cowering, pleading attitude, and buried her crimson face in her hands.

As though some unseen hand checked him, the man halted, and the girl’s cheeks were not more crimson than his own.

A moment he stood, then a step brought him to her side.  Putting out his hand, he touched her upon the shoulder, and was about to speak.  But at his touch, with another cry, she sprang to her feet and, whirling with the flash-like quickness of a wild thing, vanished into the undergrowth that walled in the glade.

With a startled exclamation, the man tried to follow calling to her, reassuring her, begging her to come back.  But there was no answer to his words; nor did he catch a glimpse of her; though once or twice he thought he heard her in swift flight up the canyon.

All the way to the place where he had first seen her, he followed; but at the cedar thicket he stopped.  For a long time, he stood there; while the twilight failed and the night came.  Slowly,—­in the soft darkness with bowed head, as one humbled and ashamed,—­he went back down the canyon to the little glade, and to the camp.