there is a breeze blowing from the Big Horn--old rocks are always damp
and stuffy in the shade. And I am looking away out over the Hills--I
hope some people enjoy the sight of piles of quartzite."

"Cruel sun fairy!" cried Bennington. "Why do you tantalize me so with
the delights from which you debar me? What have I done?"

There was a short silence.

"Can't you think of anything you've done?" asked the voice,
insinuatingly.

Bennington's conscience-stricken memory stirred. It did not seem so
ridiculous, under the direct charm of the fresh young voice that came
down through the summer air from above, like a dove's note from a
treetop, to apologize to Lawton's girl. The incongruity now was in
forcing into this Arcadian incident anything savouring of
conventionality at all. It had been so idyllic, this talk of the sun
fairy and the cloud; so like a passage from an old book of legends,
this dainty episode in the great, strong, Western breezes, under the
great, strong, Western sky. Everything should be perfect, not to be
blamed.

"Do sun fairies accept apologies?" he asked presently, in a subdued
voice.

"They might."

"This particular sun fairy is offered one by a man who is sorry."