narrow trail wound, worn smooth by the feet of Indians, mountain sheep,
and other denizens of the wild. Reynolds idly wondered whither the
trail led, and he was half tempted to start forth on an exploration
journey. But it was so comfortable there on the hillside that he gave
up the idea, so, lying full upon his back with his hands under his
head, he watched the tops of the far-off mountains, and the clouds
drifting across the great savannas of the blue.

For some time he remained thus, thinking of Glen and recalling the last
time he had seen her. He was trying once more to solve the mystery of
her disappearance from Whitehorse, when a sudden noise across the
ravine arrested his attention. Casting his eyes in that direction,
great was his surprise to see a woman mounted on a magnificent horse
riding slowly down that crooked and dangerous trail. Then his heart
leaped within him as he recognized Glen. What was he to do? he
intuitively asked himself. Should he remain where he was, or hurry
down to the brook to meet her? But what right had he to go near her?
He had never spoken a word to her, and as she did not even know who he
was, she might resent his appearance. Would it not be better for him
to remain where he was, and worship at a distance? But was it
gentlemanly that he should stay there and watch her when she was
unaware of his presence?

And all this time Glen was coming slowly down that winding trail.
Reynolds watched her almost spell-bound. She was a superb horsewoman,
and rode as one born to the saddle. How graceful was her figure, and
how perfectly the noble animal she was riding responded to the lightest
touch of the rein as he cautiously advanced. Reynolds could see the
girl most plainly now. She sat astride the saddle, with the reins in
her right hand, and a small riding-whip in the other. She wore