Several days, almost a week, passed, and then a letter from Hanson, telling her of Mrs. Hanson’s departure, and assuring her that he meant to come to Colina, that he would not stop to consider any risks he might be taking, and that he was equally indifferent to her possible prohibition.  He was coming, coming on the morning train the next Thursday, and this was Saturday.

She drew a long breath and pressed the letter to her heart.  She would never yield to him, never; not so long as that barrier to a marriage between himself and herself—­Mrs. Hanson—­remained a legal wall between them, but, oh! if she was to live, she must see him now and again, at long, long intervals; but nevertheless occasionally.

The listless melancholy of months fell from her, and those about her, noting the change, laid it to Bob Flick’s influence and to the fact that she was almost continually in the saddle; also Hughie and Gallito congratulated themselves that she was speedily forgetting Hanson.  Her whole demeanor had changed, she even condescended to banter Jose, and she took his jibes in good part; and in the evenings when Jose and Gallito, Mrs. Nitschkan and Mrs. Thomas, had sat down to the silence of their cards, and Hughie played softly on the piano in a dim corner, she talked to Seagreave; in fact, their conversations became more prolonged every evening.

One morning, a few days before Hanson arrived, she had chosen to stroll up the mountainside, instead of riding as usual.  Absorbed in her glowing anticipations, she had walked almost above timber line, then, presently, just as she realized that she was growing tired, the trail had led her to an ideal and natural resting place, a little chamber of ease.  It was an open space where the pine needles lay thick upon the ground, so thick that Pearl’s feet sank deeply into them as she entered.  All about it were gnarled and stunted pine trees, bent and twisted by the high mountain winds, until they appeared as strange, Japanese silhouettes against the deep, blue sky.  It was delightfully warm here, where the sun fell so broadly, and Pearl threw herself down upon the pine needles.  The wind sighed softly through the forest, barely penetrating her retreat, and finally, under the spell of the soft and dreamy atmosphere, she fell asleep.  After a time she wakened, and slowly opening her eyes saw to her surprise that Seagreave was sitting a few feet away from her.  He held a book in his hand, but he was not reading, neither was he looking at her, but out through a break in the trees at innumerable blue ranges, floating, unsubstantial as mist in a flood of sunshine.

She sat up, and he, hearing her move, turned quickly and met her eyes.

“I came here to read,” he said, in smiling explanation.  “I often come, and, seeing you here and asleep, I thought perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I stayed and kept away the bears and mountain lions.”

She was still a little dazed.  “Why, why,” rubbing her eyes, “I must have been asleep.  It is so pleasant here.”