I.

Nicky Dyer and the schoolmistress sat upon the slope of a hill, one of a
low range overlooking an arid Californian valley. These sunburnt slopes
were traversed by many narrow footpaths, descending, ascending, winding
among the tangle of poison-oak and wild-rose bushes, leading from the
miners' cabins to the shaft-houses and tunnels of the mine which gave to
the hills their only importance. Nicky was a stout Cornish lad of thirteen,
with large light eyes that seemed mildly to protest against the sportive
relation which a broad, freckled, turned-up nose bore to the rest of his
countenance; he was doing nothing in particular, and did it as if he were
used to it. The schoolmistress sat with her skirts tucked round her ankles,
the heels of her stout little boots driven well into the dry, gritty
soil. There was in her attitude the tension of some slight habitual
strain--perhaps of endurance--as she leaned forward, her arms stretched
straight before her, with her delicate fingers interlocked. Whatever may
be the type of Californian young womanhood, it was not her type; you felt,
looking at her cool, clear tints and slight, straight outlines, that she
had winter in her blood.

She was gazing down into the valley, as one looks at a landscape who has
not yet mastered all its changes of expression; its details were blurred in
the hot, dusty glare; the mountains opposite had faded to a flat outline
against the indomitable sky. A light wind blew up the slope, flickering the
pale leaves of a manzanita, whose burnished, cinnamon-colored stems glowed
in the sun. As the breeze strengthened, the young girl stood up, lifting
her arms, to welcome its coolness on her bare wrists.