"You aren't a train-robber or a horsethief, or--anything, are you?" she
asked him presently. "You seemed quite upset at seeing the place
wasn't deserted; but I'm sure, if you are a robber running away from a
sheriff, I'd never dream of stopping you. Please don't mind me; just
make yourself at home."

Weary turned his head and looked straight up at her. "I'm afraid I'll
have to disappoint yuh, Miss Satterly," he said blandly. "I'm just an
ordinary human, and my name is Davidson--better known as Weary. You
don't appear to remember me. We've met before."

She eyed him attentively. "Perhaps we have--it you say so. I'm
wretched about remembering strange names and faces. Was it at a dance?
I meet so many fellows at dances--" She waved a brown little hand and
smiled deprecatingly.

"Yes," said Weary laconically, still looking into her face. "It was."

She stared down at him, her brows puckered. "I know, now. It was at
the Saint Patrick's dance in Dry Lake! How silly of me to forget."

Weary turned his gaze to the hill beyond the creek, and fanned his hot
face with his hat. "It was not. It wasn't at that dance, at all."
Funny she didn't remember him! He suspected her of trying to fool him,
now that he was actually in her presence, and he refused absolutely to
be fooled.

He could see that she threw out her hand helplessly. "Well, I may as
well 'fess up. I don't remember you at all. It's horrid of me, when