moment with unbelief and horror. Nor did she dream how many weary days
and hours she one day was to pass with this same brazen sky over her,
this same broad shoulder under her head.

Cartwell looked down at the delicate face lying against his breast, at
the soft yellow hair massed against his sleeve. Into his black eyes
came a look that was passionately tender, and the strong brown hand
that supported Rhoda's shoulders trembled.

In an incredibly short time he was entering the peach orchard that
surrounded the ranch-house. A young man in white flannels jumped from
a hammock in which he had been dozing.

"For heaven's sake!" he exclaimed. "What does this mean?"

Rhoda was too ill to reply. Cartwell did not slack his giant stride
toward the house.

"It means," he answered grimly, "that you folks must be crazy to let
Miss Tuttle take a walk in clothes like this! She's got a scorpion
sting in her foot."

The man in flannels turned pale. He hurried along beside Cartwell,
then broke into a run.

"I'll telephone to Gold Rock for the doctor and tell Mrs. Newman."

He started on ahead.

"Never mind the doctor!" called Cartwell. "I've attended to the sting.