“It is as I feared.”

Once more a silence fell upon them.  For a half-mile or so, apparently deep in thought, he continued to canter at her side; at last he spoke what was in his mind.

“I hate to leave you, Senorita,” he said.

In an instant the light went out of the Girl’s eyes, and her face was as serious as his own when she replied: 

“Well, I guess I ain’t particularly crazy to have you go neither.”

The unmistakable note of regret in the Girl’s voice flattered as well as encouraged him to go further and ask: 

“Will you think of me some time?”

The Girl laughed.

“What’s the good o’ my thinkin’ o’ you?  I seen you talkin’ with them gran’ Monterey ladies an’ I guess you won’t be thinkin’ often o’ me.  Like ’s not by to-morrow you’ll ’ave clean forgot me,” she said with forced carelessness.

“I shall never forget you,” declared the young man with the intense fervour that comes so easily to the men of his race.

At that a half-mistrustful, half-puzzled look crossed the Girl’s face.  Was this handsome stranger finding her amusing?  There was almost a resentful glitter in her eyes when she cried out: 

“I ‘mos’ think you’re makin’ fun o’ me!”

“No, I mean every word that I say,” he hastened to assure her, looking straight into her eyes where he could scarcely have failed to read something which the Girl had not the subtlety to conceal.

“Oh, I guess I made you say that!” she returned, making a child-like effort to appear to disbelieve him.

The stranger could not suppress a smile; but the next moment he was serious, and asked: 

“And am I never going to see you again?  Won’t you tell me where I can find you?”

Once more the Girl was conscious of a feeling of embarrassment.  Not that she was at all ashamed of being “The Girl of The Polka Saloon,” for that never entered her mind; but she suddenly realised that it was one thing to converse pleasantly with a young man on the highway and another to let him come to her home on Cloudy Mountain.  Only too well could she imagine the cool reception, if it stopped at that, that the boys of the camp there would accord to this stylish stranger.  As a consequence, she was torn by conflicting emotions:  an overwhelming desire to see him again, and a dread of what might happen to him should he descend upon Cloudy Mountain with all his fine airs and graces.

“I guess I’m queer—­” she began uncertainly and then stopped in sudden surprise.  Too long had she delayed her answer.  Already the stage had left him some distance behind.  Unperceived by her a shade of annoyance had passed over the Californian’s face at her seeming reluctance to tell him where she lived.  The quick of his Spanish pride was touched; and with a wave of his sombrero he had pulled his horse down on his haunches.  Of no avail now was her resolution to let him know the whereabouts of the camp at any cost, for already his “Adios, Senorita” was sounding faintly in her ears.