"It's that romantic Spaniard!" whispered Helen. "What does he
want?"

"It's his afternoon call on Mariedetta, the maid," said Jean.
"They meet there twice a day, morning and afternoon."

"A lovers' tryst!" breathed Miss Blake, eagerly. "Isn't he
graceful and picturesque! Can we watch them?"

"'Sh-h! There she comes!"

From the opposite direction appeared a slim, swarthy Mexican
girl, an Indian water-jug balanced upon her shoulders. She was
clad in the straight-hanging native garment, belted in with a
sash; her feet were in sandals, and she moved as silently as a
shadow.

During the four days since Miss Blake's arrival at the Flying
Heart Ranch she had seen Mariedetta flitting noiselessly here and
there, but had never heard her speak. The pretty, expressionless
face beneath its straight black hair had ever retained its wooden
stolidity, the velvety eyes had not laughed nor frowned nor
sparkled. She seemed to be merely a part of this far southwestern
picture; a bit of inanimate yet breathing local color. Now,
however, the girl dropped her jug, and with a low cry glided to
her lover, who tossed aside his cigarette and took her in his
arms. From this distance their words were indistinguishable.

"How perfectly romantic," said the Eastern girl, breathlessly. "I