“All right, boys?”

“All right!”

The young man raised his hand.  “Let her go!” he shouted.  “Tweet-tweet!” sounded a whistle.  The engine throbbed.  The cable tightened.  The little beauty began to stir uneasily in its hammock of chains.  Then slowly and steadily the rock arose, and nearly as quickly as I can write the words, it was lying on the side of the trench and the derrick was being dismantled.

As the young man hurried away he passed Mary’s car.

“Why, it’s Archey!” she thought.  Whether or not it was due to telepathy, the young man looked up and his colour deepened under his tan.  “It is Archey; isn’t it?” asked Mary, leaning forward and smiling.

“Yes’m,” he said, awkwardly enough, and grammar deserting him in his confusion he added:  “It’s me all right, Miss Spencer.”

“I’ve been watching you get that rock out,” she began, looking at him with frank admiration, and then they talked for a few minutes.  I need not tell you what they said—­it would only sound trivial—­but as they talked a bond of sympathy, of mutual interest, seemed gradually to wind itself around them.  They smiled, nodded, looking approvingly at each other; and each felt that feeling of warmth and satisfaction which comes to the heart when instinct whispers, “Make no mistake.  You’ve found a friend.”

“But what are you doing here?” she finally asked.

“Working,” he grinned.  “I graduated last year—­construction engineer—­and this is my second job.  This winter I was down in old Mexico on bridge work—­”

“You must tell me about it some time,” she said, as one of the workmen came to take him away; and driving off in her car she couldn’t help thinking with a smile of amusement, “’Woman’s natural enemy’—­how silly it sounds in the open air ...!”

CHAPTER IX

Meanwhile the matter of Mary’s education was receiving the attention of her aunts.

“Patty,” said Miss Cordelia one day, “do you know that child of ours is seventeen?”

The years had dealt kindly with the Misses Spencer and as they looked at each other, with thoughtful benignity, their faces were like two studies in silver and pink.

“Although I say it myself,” continued Miss Cordelia, “I doubt if we could have improved her studies.  Indeed she is unusually advanced in French, English and music.  But I do think she ought to go to a good finishing school now for a year or two—­Miss Parsons’, of course—­where she would not only be welcomed because of her family, but where she would form suitable friendships and learn those lessons of modern deportment which we ourselves, I fear, would never be able to teach her.”

But if you had been there when the subject of Miss Parsons’ School for Young Ladies was broached to Mary, I think it would have reminded you of that famous recipe for rabbit pie which so wisely begins “First catch your rabbit.”