As he dashed away, to cover his first audacity of compliment, Christie
lifted the eyes thus apostrophized to the opposite field. The vaquero,
who was chasing some cattle, was evidently too preoccupied to heed the
shouts of her companion, and wheeling round suddenly to intercept one
of the deviating fugitives, permitted Christie's escort to dash past him
before that gentleman could rein in his excited steed. This brought the
vaquero directly in her path. Perceiving her, he threw his horse back on
its haunches, to prevent a collision. Christie rode up to him, suddenly
uttered a cry, and halted. For before her, sunburnt in cheek and throat,
darker in the free growth of moustache and curling hair, clad in the
coarse, picturesque finery of his class, undisguised only in his boyish
beauty, sat George Kearney.

The blood, that had forsaken her astonished face, rushed as quickly
back. His eyes, which had suddenly sparkled with an electrical glow,
sank before hers. His hand dropped, and his cheek flushed with a dark
embarrassment.

"You here, Mr. Kearney? How strange!--but how glad I am to meet you
again!"

She tried to smile; her voice trembled, and her little hand shook as she
extended it to him.

He raised his dark eyes quickly, and impulsively urged his horse to her
side. But, as if suddenly awakening to the reality of the situation,
he glanced at her hurriedly, down at his barbaric finery, and threw a
searching look towards her escort.