“But it pains?”

“Just enough to let me know it’s there.”

Frowning, she watched him.

“Is it a bruise or a sprain?”

“A wrench, I think.  It will be all right if I favor it”

“Favor it?  Except the ranch, there is no place nearer than seven miles.  You are staying at Corbett’s, I presume?”

“Yes.”

“You can’t walk back there to-night.  That is certain.”  She slipped from the saddle.  “You’ll have to go back to the ranch with me, sir.  I can walk very well.”

He felt a wave of color sweep his face.

“I couldn’t take the horse and let you walk.”

“That is nonsense, sir.  You can, and you shall.”

“If I am to take your horse I need not saddle myself upon your hospitality.  I can ride back to Corbett’s, and send the horse home to-morrow.”

“It is seven miles to Miguel’s, and Corbett’s is three beyond that.  No doctor would advise that long ride before your knee receives attention, I think, sir, you will have to put up with the ranch till to-morrow.”

“You ain’t taking my intention right.  All I meant was that I didn’t like to unload myself on your folks; but if you say I’m to do it I’ll be very happy to be your guest.”  He said it with a touch of boyish embarrassment she found becoming.

“We’ll stop at the top of the hill and take on my drawing things,” she told him.

He need have had no fears for her as a walker, for she was of the elect few born to grace of motion.  Slight she was, yet strong; the delicacy that breathed from her was of the spirit, and consisted with perfect health.  No Grecian nymph could have trod with lighter or surer step nor have unconsciously offered to the eye more supple and beautiful lines of limb and body.

Never had the young man seen before anybody whose charm went so poignantly to the root of his emotions.  Every turn of the head, the set of the chin, the droop of the long, thick lashes on the soft cheek, the fling of a gesture, the cadence of her voice; they all delighted and fascinated him.  She was a living embodiment of joy-in-life, of love personified.

She packed her sketches and her paraphernalia with businesslike directness, careless of whether he did or did not see her water-colors.  A movement of his hand stayed her as she took from, the easel the one upon which she had been engaged.

It represented the sun-drenched slope below them, with the little gulch dressed riotously in its gala best of yellows.

“You’ve got that fine,” he told her enthusiastically.

She shook her head, unmoved by praise which did not approve itself to her judgment as merited.

“No, I didn’t get it at all.  A great artist might get the wonder of it; but I can’t.”

“It looks good to me,” he said.

“Then I’m afraid you’re not a judge,” she smiled.

From where they stood a trail wound along the ridge and down into a valley beyond.  At the farther edge of this, nestling close to the hills that took root there, lay the houses of a ranch.