camaraderie, which might have existed between two children, so careless and unaffected was its nature; and yet, lying back of that, there was a certain quiet reserve and poise which meant that she was perfect mistress of herself and of the situation, and the tempo of their camaraderie was entirely subject to her regulation. But as time went on Dick found it more and more difficult to restrain the tenderness which welled up in him as he sat at dusk watching the small brown hands move over the strings of the steel guitar, bringing forth the plaintive strains which aroused in him a deeper yearning than he knew how to suppress. And then he would try to bring himself down to earth by introducing some commonplace subject for discussion, in order to herd himself away from dangerous ground. But never, even when he sat alone blowing the smoke of his cigar out across the valley, did he come out and fairly face the problem with all of its factors. He dared not. In the forefront of everything was the fact that he loved the girl intensely. Back of this loomed perplexing and menacing shadows of elements which threatened and appalled him. The girl's race, her ancestry upon both sides, her own blame in the tragedy which had blackened her life, the child of her fault—all of these spectres lurked and mouthed at him, ready, he knew, to come forth and torture him whenever he would turn his eyes upon them and thus permit them to come into the
