The time was morning, early morning; it was Winter, and the sun was still but a little way up in the sky.  The day, although the month was December, was as warm as September.  There had not even been a frost the previous night.  Mother Nature was indulging in one of her many whims, and seemed smiling broadly at the incongruity.

Though the rider was out thus early, his departure had been by no means surreptitious.  “I’m going over to Baker’s, and may not be back before night,” he had said at the breakfast table; and, impassive as usual, the older man had made no comment, but simply nodded and went about his work.  Likewise there was no subterfuge when the youth arrived at his destination.  “I came to see Florence,” he announced to Scotty in the front yard; then, as he tied the pony, he added:  “I spoke to Grannis, and he said he’d come over and help you.  Do you know exactly when you’ll want him?”

“Yes, day after to-morrow.  This weather is too good to waste.”

Ben turned toward the house.  “All right.  I’ll see that he’s over here bright and early.”

The visitor found the interior of the Baker home looking like a corner in a storage warehouse.  Florence, in a big checked apron reaching to her chin, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, was busily engaged in still further dismantling the once cosey parlor.  Amidst the confusion, and apparently a part of it, Mrs. Baker wandered aimlessly about.  The front door was wide open, letting in a stream of sunlight.

“Good-morning,” said Ben, appearing in the doorway.

Mrs. Baker stopped long enough to nod, and Florence looked up from her work.

“Good-morning,” she replied.  A deliberate glance took in the new-comer’s dress from head to foot, and lingered on the exposed revolver hilt.  “Are you hunting Indians or bear?”

Ben Blair returned the look, even more deliberately.

“Bear, I judge from the question.  I came in search of you.”

There was no answer, and the man came in and sat down on the corner of a box.  “You seem to be very busy,” he said.

The girl went on with her packing.  “Yes, rather busy,” she said indifferently.

Ben dangled one long leg over the side of the box.

“Are you too busy to take a ride with me?  I want to talk with you.”

“I’m pretty busy,” non-committally.

“Suppose I should ask it as a favor?”

“Suppose I should decline?”

The long leg stopped its swinging.  “You wouldn’t, though.”

The girl’s brown eyes flashed.  “How do you know I wouldn’t?”

Ben stood up and folded his arms.  “Because it would be the first favor I ever asked of you, and you wouldn’t refuse that.”

They eyed each other a moment.

“Where do you want to go?” temporized Florence.

“Anywhere, so it’s with you.”

“You don’t want to stay long?”

“I’ll come back whenever you say.”