Her questing glance found Clay, busy over the mesquite fire upon which he was cooking breakfast.  She watched him move about, supple and light and strong, and her heart lifted with sheer joy of the mate she had chosen.  He was such a man among men, this clear-eyed, bronzed husband of a week.  He was so clean and simple and satisfying.  As she closed the flaps she gave a deep sigh of content.

Every minute till she joined him was begrudged.  For Beatrice had learned the message of her heart.  She knew that she was wholly and completely in love with what life had brought her.

The hubbub of the city seemed to her now so small and so petty.  Always she had known a passionate love of things fine and good.  But civilization had thwarted her purposes, belittled her expression of them.  Environment had driven her into grooves of convention.  Here at last she was free.

And she was amazingly, radiantly happy.  What did motor-cars or wine-suppers or Paris gowns matter?  They were the trappings that stressed her slavery.  Here she moved beside her mate without fear or doubt in a world wonderful.  Eye to eye, they spoke the truth to each other after the fashion of brave, simple souls.

Glowing from the ice-cold bath of water from a mountain stream, she stepped down the slope into a slant of sunshine to join Clay.  He looked up from the fire and waved a spoon gayly at her.  For he too was as jocund as the day which stood tiptoe on the misty mountain-tops.  They had come into the hills to spend their honeymoon alone together, and life spoke to him in accents wholly joyous.

The wind and sun caressed her.  As she moved toward him, a breath of the morning flung the gown about her so that each step modeled anew the slender limbs.

Her husband watched the girl streaming down the slope.  Love swift as old wine flooded his veins.  He rose, caught her to him, and looked down into the deep, still eyes that were pools of happiness.

“Are you glad—­glad all through, sweetheart?” he demanded.

A little laugh welled from her throat.  She gave him a tender, mocking smile.

“I hope heaven’s like this,” she whispered.

“You don’t regret New York—­not a single, hidden longing for it ’way down deep in yore heart?”

She shook her head.  “I always wanted to be rescued from the environment that was stifling me, but I didn’t know a way of escape till you came,” she said.

“Then you knew it?”

“From the moment I saw you tie the janitor to the hitching-post.  You remember I was waiting to go riding with Mr. Bromfield.  Well, I was bored to death with correct clothes and manners and thinking.  I knew just what he would say to me and how he would say it and what I would answer.  Then you walked into the picture and took me back to nature.”

“It was the hitching-post that did it, then?”

“The hitching-post began it, anyhow.”  She slipped her arms around his neck and held him fast.  “Oh, Clay, isn’t it just too good to be true?”