resentful glitter in her eyes when she cried out:

"I 'mos' think you're makin' fun o' me!"

"No, I mean every word that I say," he hastened to assure her, looking
straight into her eyes where he could scarcely have failed to read
something which the Girl had not the subtlety to conceal.

"Oh, I guess I made you say that!" she returned, making a child-like
effort to appear to disbelieve him.

The stranger could not suppress a smile; but the next moment he was
serious, and asked:

"And am I never going to see you again? Won't you tell me where I can
find you?"

Once more the Girl was conscious of a feeling of embarrassment. Not that
she was at all ashamed of being "The Girl of The Polka Saloon," for that
never entered her mind; but she suddenly realised that it was one thing
to converse pleasantly with a young man on the highway and another to
let him come to her home on Cloudy Mountain. Only too well could she
imagine the cool reception, if it stopped at that, that the boys of the
camp there would accord to this stylish stranger. As a consequence, she
was torn by conflicting emotions: an overwhelming desire to see him
again, and a dread of what might happen to him should he descend upon
Cloudy Mountain with all his fine airs and graces.

"I guess I'm queer--" she began uncertainly and then stopped in sudden
surprise. Too long had she delayed her answer. Already the stage had