on which she lay, when there came between her eyes and the dancing
butterfly the sight of a man's foot in a large worn boot covered with
red mud.

"Oh, don't!" she exclaimed, raising herself on her elbow and stretching
out a warning hand.

"Don't what?" a hoarse voice asked above her head.

"Don't stamp on those bramble flowers, you dolt!" she retorted,
springing to her knees. The foot paused and then descended clumsily on
the frail branch, and raising her eyes she saw above her the bewildered
face of a slouching man with a thin sunburnt beard, and white arms
showing through his ragged shirt.

"Don't you ever SEE anything, Liff Hyatt?" she assailed him, as he stood
before her with the look of a man who has stirred up a wasp's nest.

He grinned. "I seen you! That's what I come down for."

"Down from where?" she questioned, stooping to gather up the petals his
foot had scattered.

He jerked his thumb toward the heights. "Been cutting down trees for Dan
Targatt."

Charity sank back on her heels and looked at him musingly. She was
not in the least afraid of poor Liff Hyatt, though he "came from the
Mountain," and some of the girls ran when they saw him. Among the more
reasonable he passed for a harmless creature, a sort of link between the