“Not thirsty right now, Broderick,” Thornton returned coolly.

Then he heard a man’s voice from the shadows at his back, and without turning knew that Henry Pollard was out there, just behind him.  At the same instant his busy eyes found the girl he sought.

Winifred Waverly’s days in Hill’s Corners had had little enough of the joy of life in them for her; she had felt that she breathed an atmosphere charged with forces which she could not understand; upon her spirit had rested a weight of uncertainty and uneasiness and suspicion; the men she saw had hard, sinister faces and seemed cast for dark, merciless things; even her uncle appeared a strange sort of stranger to her and she shrank from following her natural train of surmise and suspicion when now and then she surprised a certain look upon his face or when she saw him with the type of man with whom he mixed.

Tonight it was as though after a long period of gloomy, overcast skies, a storm had passed and the sun had broken through.  About her were light and music, the merry faces of children and girls with everywhere joyous, full throated, light hearted laughter.  And the spirit of her ran out to meet the simple joy of the dance, glad just to be glad again.

Thornton knew that he had found her before she turned her face toward him.  He recognized the trim little figure although now the riding habit was discarded for a pretty gown of white which he guessed her own quick fingers had fashioned for the dance; he recognized the white neck with the brown tendrils of hair rebelling from the ribbon-band about her head.  And then, when she turned a little, he stared at her from his vantage in the outside darkness, wondering if she had grown prettier than ever in the few weeks since he had seen her, or if it were the dress and the way she wore her hair with a white flower in it, or if he had been half blind that other time.

There was a warm, tender flush upon her cheeks telling of her happiness.  Her eyes shone, soft in their brightness, and her lips were red with the leaping blood of youth.  She had turned to speak with Mrs. Sturgis, the stoutest, jolliest and altogether most motherly woman in the valley, and Mrs. Sturgis, watching her eyes and lips and paying no attention to her words, put out her plump hands suddenly, crying heartily: 

“You pretty little mouse!  If I had just one wish I’d wish I was a man, an’ I’d just grab you up in my arms an’ I wouldn’t stop goin’ until I set you down in front of a preacher.  Come here an’ let Mother Mary kiss you.”

“There’s a woman with brains for you, Buck,” chuckled Broderick.

Thornton, though he agreed very heartily just then, did so in silence.

“It’s Winifred Waverly,” went on Broderick carelessly.  “She’s Henry Pollard’s niece, you know.  A little beauty, don’t you think?”

Thornton nodded.  Again he had agreed but he did not care to discuss her with Ben Broderick.  The miner laughed lightly, and added for Thornton’s further information,