As the hand of his watch marked off the twenty-fifth of the
prescribed thirty he turned his steps in the direction of the
pool. He half expected that she would be there when he came over
the ridge of rock. But she had not returned. He looked up the
coulee, end then at the firm white sand close to the water. The
imprints of her feet were there--small, narrow imprints of a
heeled shoe. Unconsciously he smiled, for no other reason than
that each surprise he encountered was a new delight to him. A
forest girl as he had known them would have worn moccasins--six
hundred miles from civilization.

As he was about to leap across the narrow neck of the pool he
noticed a white object almost buried in the dry sand, and picked
it up. It was a handkerchief; and this, too, was a surprise. He
had not particularly noticed her dress, except that it was soft
and clinging blue. The handkerchief he looked at more closely. It
was of fine linen with a border of lace, and so soft that he could
have hidden it in the palm of his hand. From it rose a faint,
sweet scent of the wild rock violet. He knew that it was rock
violet, because more than once he had crushed the blossoms between
his hands. He thrust the bit of fabric in the breast of his
flannel shirt, and walked swiftly up the coulee.

A hundred yards above him the stream turned abruptly, and here a
strip of forest meadow grew to the water's edge. He sprang up the
low bank, and stood face to face with the girl.

She had heard his approach, and was waiting for him, a little
smile of welcome on her lips. She had completed her toilet. She
had braided her wonderful hair, and it was gathered in a heavy,