“You must like me powerful well . . .?” This remark, far from being a question, was accompanied with all the physiognomical evidences of an assertion.

The stranger shot a surprised glance at her, out of the corner of his eye.  Then he admitted, in all truthfulness: 

“Of course I do.  Who could help . . .?”

“Have you tried not to?” questioned the Girl, smiling in his face now, and enjoying in the full this stolen intimacy.

“Ah, Senorita, why should I . . .?  All I know is that I do.”

The Girl became reflective; presently she observed: 

“How funny it seems, an’ yet, p’r’aps not so strange after all.  The boys—­all my boys at the camp like me—­I’m glad you do, too.”

Meanwhile the good-natured and loquaciously-inclined driver had turned his head and was subjecting the man cantering alongside of his stage to a rigid inspection.  With his knowledge of the various types of men in California at that time, he had no difficulty in placing the status of this straight-limbed, broad-shouldered, young fellow as a native Californian.  Moreover, it made no difference to him whether his passenger had met an old acquaintance or not; it was sufficient for him to observe that the lady, as well as himself—­for the expression on her face could by no means be described as bored or scornful—­liked the stranger’s appearance; and so the better to take in all the points of the magnificent horse which the young Californian was riding, not to mention a commendable desire to give his only passenger a bit of pleasant diversion on the long journey, he slowed his horse down to a walk.

“But where do you live?  You have a rancho near here?” the Girl was now asking.

“My father has—­I live with him.”

“Any sisters?”

“No,—­no sisters or brothers.  My mother was an American; she died a few years ago.”  And so saying, his glance sought and obtained an answering one full of sympathy.

“I’m downright sorry for you,” said the Girl with feeling; and then in the next breath she added: 

“But I’m pleased you’re—­you’re half American.”

“And you, Senorita?”

“I’m an orphan—­my family are all dead,” replied the Girl in a low voice.  “But I have my boys,” she went on more cheerfully, “an’ what more do I need?” And then before he had time to ask her to explain what she meant by the boys, she cried out:  “Oh, jest look at them wonderful berries over yonder!  La, how I wish I could pick ’em!”

“Perhaps you may,” the stranger hastened to say, and instantly with his free hand he made a movement to assist her to alight, while with the other he checked his horse; then, with his eyes resting appealingly upon the driver, he inquired:  “It is possible, is it not, Senor?”