diate reply. "And you're not an experienced herder?"
"No. I've never worked—I've never worked at it before."
"Then how did you know what to do?"
"I didn't know. I let 'em do what they wanted to, and followed along."
Then the girl laughed,—for the first time. It was a tinkling, musical sound, inexpressibly girlish, and Hugh laughed boyishly himself. It was their first real moment of understanding; and it seemed to Hugh that a new impulse, a curious sense of impending events, a new stir and vitality had been born in the air. He might have wondered at the freshness and happiness in his own laugh, as much as in hers. It was an hour of miracles.
"You couldn't have done better—and I needn't tell you that you've probably saved me—and my father—hundreds of dollars. The coyotes and the wolves would have been busy all night and to-day. I'd be glad enough to pay you well for this time you've spent—and give you a steady job if you want it."
She spoke perfectly naturally, and Hugh knew that his torn and soiled clothes and his unshaven face had done their work. Obviously she never guessed his true position. He wondered how she explained his presence in the hills and his reasons for staying with the sheep.
She did have her own theories, but they were
