OUTLAW HORSE SHOW TOP HILL PARK

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JO GARY, Champion Rider of Top Hill, will ride TURN TURTLE and PINCH HITTER.

SLEEPY SANDY will ride BATTLESHIP GRAY and BABY DOLL.

JAKEY FOURR will ride PICKLED PETE and PIKER.

GENE DOSSEY will ride HIAWATHA and WHIZZ.

———

MISS PENNY ANTE (Miss Penelope Lamont) Will ride anything brought into the ring!

———

GREAT EXHIBITION OF ROUGH RIDING by the most notorious riders of the West. Only the most unmanageable animals will be ridden.

Kingdon's eye-glasses came off with a sense of shock.

"This will never do, Margaret!" he exclaimed. "Those crazy boys have no sense. They'll bring out some of those wild horses, and that meek-looking, little daredevil friend of Kurt's will call any bluff. She mustn't be allowed to ride."

His wife restrained him as he started away.

"I feel confident that she can do—anything. She told me she could ride."

"Well," he replied resignedly, "I always have left everything regarding girls to your judgment, so I suppose I must now, but I am surprised at you."

The children were thrown into a state of excitement on deciphering Pen's part in the coming feats.

A bugle sounded.

Into the ring rode the four slim, young top riders of the ranch force, chaparajos and sombreros being much in evidence. They gave the usual stunts in the typical Western way on a track tramped as hard as asphalt, the tattoo of hoofs making the hard earth ring in the soundless atmosphere. Their feats, singly and together, were marvelous, but there was lacking to the onlookers the charm of novelty, as they had long been accustomed to these and similar exhibitions of horsemanship.

Everyone's heart beat a little faster with expectancy, therefore, when there came another blare of the trumpet. Into the ring came "Miss Penny Ante," slim and straight as a boy scout, clad in puttees, dark blue breeches and an olive-drab blouse.

A sleek, shy colt was suddenly inducted into the scene of action. Then there began a frisky game of maneuvers. The little, would-be rider proved as wary and nimble as the colt on which she finally succeeded in shooting a bridle. Another round of come and go, and one leg went over the slender neck, and then down the glossy back slid the lithe figure. With a wondering, protesting neigh, the colt tried all the tactics known to his species, but they were of no avail, and after circling and re-circling the ring, Pen calmly relinquished him and awaited the next offer.

A wild-eyed mustang was the victim. As soon as she was mounted, he rose high on his hind feet but came down like a lamb and ended in spinning like a top around the ring.

A general protest went up when a demoniacal-looking buckskin was produced.

"They are horse-mad!" exclaimed Kingdon. "Margaret, this is going to stop right here."

"Louis," she replied earnestly, "this is only horse-play to Pen. No, I am not punning. I didn't know she was going to make this exhibition, but some way I feel that she can easily live up to the promises in the program."

With a plunge the buckskin went straight into mid-air and came down hard. Then at full speed amid a whirling of dust, he tried all his tricks, but always the little figure held her position, easily triumphant, and finally the hitherto unmountable animal again came trembling to earth and obediently followed his rider's will.

"You've won!" cried the cowboys.

"Now, bring me a horse, a real saddle horse—the kind you give a kingdom for!" she demanded. "I'd like to ride a bit, if you don't mind."

They brought her a beautiful thoroughbred. She rode around the ring a few times, and then, leaping the fence to the inclosure, was away and over the hills, her blood throbbing, her heart pounding as she felt the soft, southwest wind in her face, the siren song of freedom ringing in her ears. The divine sweetness of the mountain air was in her nostrils. She was recalled from her state of rhapsody by the sound of pounding hoofs behind her. She half turned in her saddle, expecting to see Jo. She didn't need the commanding-toned "Wait!" to rein in her horse.

There was an inscrutable look in the blazing eyes of the approaching horseman, a compelling force in his broad shoulders as he rode up to her.

"Where are you going?" he demanded.

"Nowhere. Just riding," she replied.

Her uplifted face was vivid with joy, her eyes sparkling. Suddenly a wave of color suffused her cheeks.

"I wasn't running away!" she declared, suppressing a chuckle. "Honest, I wasn't. It's field day. I've been doing stunts and I just ached for a real, regular ride. It's so grand to be astride a horse and feel the world is yours! When did you come home?"

"I haven't come home. I am on my way to Fowler's to subpoena a witness, and I rode this way meaning to stop but a moment. I came over the big hill just as you rode into the ring."

She stole a look at his impassive face.

"And you saw the sports?"

"Yes; and rode on after you—"

"Because you feared your prisoner might be taking French leave? No; this is the end of the rainbow to me. I have no desire to leave—at present."

They were riding slowly on.

"Where did you learn to ride?"

"I don't remember; it was so long ago."

"That was circus riding."

"It did look like it," she said deprecatingly.

"If you can ride like that, why did you leave the circus for the life—"

"Of a crook?" she finished. "Suppose I stole a horse and sold it and had to vamoose. Even circus managers don't employ thieves."

"Who gave you permission to ride to-day?" he demanded.

She pulled from the pocket of her blouse a program and handed it to him.

"You see I was featured," she explained modestly.

He read it with a frown expressive of displeasure.

"Did Mrs. Kingdon know you were going to do this?"

"No one but one of the men knew."

"How did you come to meet the men?"

"The children introduced me to one of them and I met the others at the dance. I never knew what dancing really meant until then. I've learned to play a very gamey game, too. Craps."

With a jerk Kurt brought his horse to a halt and reaching over caught her bridle as she was about to spur her horse onward.

"Did you tell Mrs. Kingdon everything?" he asked sternly.

"Everything I could remember," she replied demurely. "Far more than I told you."

"What did she say?"

"She is going to talk to you and ask you to leave the entire matter in her hands."

He broke the short silence that followed.

"Dancing, craps and bronco-breaking are not what I brought you here for."

"But I've done lots of other things, too. Sewed three days straight, learned how to make salads, heard the children's lessons, picked flowers and getting wise to a home atmosphere every minute. You won't send me away?"

He was scowling at the program again.

"Why are you called Penny Ante?"

"You object to all of my names. But this one was Betty's fault. She introduced me as 'Aunt Penny,' and of course they put it backward."

"Who do they think you are?"

"Your 'lady friend' here for a visit," she answered with the little giggle that always offended him. Then, appeasingly: "Mrs. Kingdon said it would be better if only you and she knew who I am and why I am here at the ranch."

"Go back to the house," he directed. "I'll be home in a few days."

Obediently she turned her horse and he rode in the opposite direction.

"Kurt—Mr. Walters!" she called entreatingly.

He turned in his saddle and waited until she rode back to him.

"There is something I want to tell you," she said, her eyes downcast, a faint note of exultation in her voice. "I haven't taken a thing—or tried to—or wanted to—since I've been here, and I've had lots of chances."

Receiving no reply, she looked up pleadingly, and was startled at the transformation in his eyes, which were usually narrow, cold and of steel-gray shade, but now were dark, shining and full of infinite pity as they looked down into hers.

"I am glad to hear it," he said gently. "You know that was why I brought you here. Now you must do more for me. You mustn't mingle with the men, or repeat to-day's program. I want you to be like her—a house-woman. Good-bye—until I come home."

He rode swiftly away, and she laughed softly to herself, stopping suddenly.

"It isn't so funny after all; it's really pathetic. But—a house-woman! Ye Gods! That is the last thing I want to be—or could be. It's all well for a novelty, but for steady diet—oh, me! If Hebby could have heard the law laid down to me, he'd be overcome with glee. Poor old Heb! I bet he is still frothing at the mouth because I gave him such a neat slip. I seem, however, to have only succeeded in changing keepers."

She rode on, her conscience smiting her now and then when she recalled the look in Kurt's eyes.

"I don't deserve pity from him or anyone," she thought a little sadly.

She made no mention at Top Hill of having met the foreman. Notwithstanding his orders, for three days she revelled in the companionship of Jo and the men.

"We must harvest all the hay we can," she told him, "while Kind Kurt is away."

On the evening of the third day, she found herself watching the hill road from town.

"I feel like Sister Anne," she thought. "It's odd, why I am wanting him to return, for when he does, my fun will be nipped in the bud. It may be the feeling of a dog for its master that I have acquired for my sheriff man. Jo will be going soon to Westcott's. I think I will play up to Kind Kurt and then tell him what I revealed to Mrs. Kingdon. Wow!"

She turned from the window to hear the message Kingdon had just received from the telegraph office in town. An old-time friend had asked him to join a party of men at a ranch a hundred miles distant. His wife urged him to follow his apparent inclination.

"It'll do you good, Louis, to see more of your kind again."

"I wouldn't consider it if you didn't have such good company," he said, with a whimsical smile in Pen's direction.

The following morning, Jo drove Mrs. Kingdon, Pen and the children to town to see Kingdon off. When his train had pulled out, they went to the postoffice and Francis was sent in for the mail.

"A letter for you, mother," he said, running up to the car. "It's Aunt Helen's writing."

An anxious look came into Margaret Kingdon's eyes as she read.

"Doris is ill, and my sister wants me to come to her," she explained to Pen. "She is quite helpless in a sick room and Doris asks for me. There is a train east in an hour and you can send my luggage on to me. I'll return as soon as Doris is convalescent."

"I will do all I can to help with the children," promised Pen.

"I know you will. And Jo can stop at Mrs. Merlin's and take her to Top Hill. She always presides in my absence. She is a good housekeeper and is never disagreeable or officious."

"Jo says Mrs. Merlin shinnies on her own side," added Billy.

"Jo is right," replied his mother.

At the station Mrs. Kingdon drew Pen aside.

"You must tell Kurt, you know," she cautioned.

Pen looked plaintive, but the conductor's "all aboard" call ended the conversation.

"We'll say our prayers and our lessons like mother told us," said Francis as they motored home, "but of course we can't be too good all the time. I am going to ride a horse, a real horse—not a pony."

"I am going to sit up late nights," declared Billy.

"And I shall wear your clothes and play I am a boy," Betty informed him.

"Well," thought Pen, "after all these Declarations of Independence, I feel I must get in the forbidden fruit game, too. I know what I'll do. I'll not tell Kurt—not right away, at least."

Half way to the ranch they stopped at Mrs. Merlin's cottage.

"She certainly looks the part of propriety to perfection," thought Pen, as she surveyed the tall, angular, spectacled woman, who came to the car, and whose grim features relaxed slightly after a keen glance at the young girl.

"I'll have four children this time instead of three," she said.

"What would she think," reflected Pen, "if Kind Kurt should tell her what kind of a child the fourth one is!"

Back at Top Hill, Pen packed the luggage to be expressed to Mrs. Kingdon, and Jo made another trip to town, planning to go from there to Westcott's.

At dinner time Kurt arrived, and Pen chuckled as she easily read his dismay at the situation.

"He's foreseeing and dreading all sorts of terrible things I may do or am capable of doing. Just because he is looking for trouble, I have no desire to give it. I'll play a new role and show him what a tame, good little girl I can be; maybe I'll like being one and it'll turn out to be a real reform. It would be awfully odd if he found his pedalled ideal in The Thief!"

She was conscious of his searching eyes upon her. She looked demurely down. In a soft, subdued voice she read little stories to the children, and when their bedtime hour came, she went upstairs with them.

Later she joined him on the library veranda where he was smoking his pipe, for it was one of the few nights when it was warm enough for such indulgence.

She went up to him unfalteringly.

"I have put myself on honor while Mrs. Kingdon is away," she said gravely. "I will try hard to do as you want me to do, but it will be easier for me if you will trust me."

Her eyes looked out so very straight, with none of the worldly wisdom he had seen in them the day she had been transferred to his guardianship, that he found himself incapable of harboring any further doubt of her sincerity.

"I will," he said staunchly; "I will trust you as she does."

They sat together in the moonlight without further converse and in the reposeful silence a mutual understanding was born.

Presently she went inside and played some old-time airs on the piano with the caressing, lingering touch of those who play by ear.

"Where did you learn to play?" he asked wonderingly.

She looked up, slightly startled. She hadn't heard him come in and her thoughts had been far away from Top Hill.

"I never did learn," she said, rising from the piano. "I play by ear. I see it is late. I must go upstairs. Good night, Mr. Walters."

"Good night, Pen," he said kindly.

He returned to the porch and pipe and lost himself in a haze of dreams—such dreams as had been wont to come to him in his younger days when he had been a cow-puncher pure and simple. Gathered about a roaring camp fire that lighted up the rough and boisterous faces of his companions, he had seemed as one of them, but later when they had gone to well-earned slumber and it had been his turn to guard the long lines of cattle in the cool of the cottonwoods, he had used to gaze into the mysteries of a desert moon slowly drifting through a cerulean sky and dream a boy's dream of the woman who was to come to him.

As he grew older and came more into contact with the world, he was brought to an overwhelming realization that the woman of his dreams did not exist. The knowledge made an ache in his heart, but to-night he was again longing with the primary instinct that would not be killed,—longing for the One.

Pen went to bed and to sleep. The next day she was a perfect model of a young housewife. She helped the children with their little lessons, filled all the vases, trained some vines, and then with some needlework went out on the veranda. At the table she listened and responded interestedly to Mrs. Merlin's bromidic remarks, was gentle with the children and most flatteringly deferential to Kurt. Of her former banter and coquetry toward him there was no trace. After the children had gone to bed, she played cribbage with Mrs. Merlin while Kurt read the papers.

When she was undressing that night she examined her shoulders in the mirror very closely.

"There should be little wings sprouting. I was never even make-believe good before. The relapse will be a winner when it comes. If I could only steady down to something like a normal life. But I never shall."

She was standing pensively by a rosebush the next morning feeling appallingly weary of well-doing when Kurt in his riding clothes suddenly appeared before her.

"Would you like to ride this morning?" he asked. "Work is slack just now."

With a rush of joy she got into her boyish looking outfit and mounted the horse he had chosen for her, a thoroughbred animal but one far different from those she had tried out on field day. She was very careful not to try to outride the foreman, or to perform any of her marvels of horsemanship. They had a long exhilarating ride over the foothills, and she felt the blood leaping again in her arteries at the turning from the comfortable channels of house life into the lure of the open.

"I was never meant for indoors," she thought. "I think I can stand it up here a while longer if he'll give me more of this exercise."

That night as they sat in the library alone, he lost his habitual reticence and talked—through her guidance—of himself and his life.

"Does it satisfy you always," she asked. "Wouldn't you like the power of ruling fates and fortunes in a city way?"

"No;" he replied, almost fiercely. "When a man has circled the herd and risen in his stirrups to throw a lariat and watched through the night by the light of camp fires, nothing else calls to him quite the same way. I couldn't endure to live a bottled up life—the life of cities. Men of my kind are branded; they may wander, but they always come back. After you once get on intimate terms with the mountain and the blue overhead, other things don't satisfy."

She drew him into further conversation regarding his former life, responding briefly but with an undercurrent of interest that put him on good terms with himself.

In the days that followed, these rides became frequent, and despite the fact that they seldom spoke, they unconsciously grew into a closeness of companionship which saved her from the ennui of unwonted domestic environment. The intense vitality of the young foreman attracted her, and she began to have a friendly sympathy for him, and even to feel a tranquil satisfaction in his reposeful silence. At times she was sorely tempted to show him the same little impish self she had portrayed on their first ride up the trail, and sometimes her conscience would sting her that she had failed to confide in him as Mrs. Kingdon had advised, but his gray eyes looked out so very straight and with such calm kindliness—the gaze of a man who has lived the simple life in the open—and with so little affinity to the eyes of the world-wise, that she found herself incapable of carrying out her intentions.

One night when the men had arranged to have another dance, Pen paid unusual attention to her dress. She came downstairs, a slight little figure in a soft, flower-sprigged, old-fashioned muslin (designed originally for bedroom windows and donated by Mrs. Kingdon), her hair softly brought to the crown of her head, with little curling rings about her brow. A freshness like the first faint fragrance of young spring seemed to hover about her. Kurt surveyed her with a look akin to adoration. Then his eyes dropped.

"Don't dance with the boys to-night," he said abruptly.

"I must play the ingenue part for which I am costumed," she thought.

"Mrs. Kingdon told me," she said gently, "that the boys had so few opportunities for partners, I must divide my dances equally."

"There's a party of tourists—teachers—at Westcott's. I've asked them over. The boys can dance with them."

"Well," she assented graciously, "I'll just dance with Betty and Francis and Billy—"

"And me," he finished.

"Thank you. I didn't know that you danced."

In the dance hall she looked eagerly about, hoping that Jo might have been invited, but she was disappointed.

"I am not dancing," she thought, when Kurt was guiding her over the floor. "I am just being deliciously carried about. It's very restful, but not exhilarating. Oh, Jo, where art thou? It was like drinking champagne to dance with you, but I suppose continuous champagne is bad for one."

Later that night when she was taking off her dancing slippers her thoughts were still of the man with whom she had danced so many times.

"He's kind and good and strong—a suppressed strength. He looks passion-proof; but if he ever falls in love! And what a triumph for a thief to capture an adamantine heart! But I don't want that kind—nor any kind."

Down in the bunkhouse, Kurt was recalling the feel of her little hand that had left a trail like fire upon his arm and had filled him with a sensation of ecstasy. A new divine sweetness seemed born into the air. He looked out of his window up into a star-flecked sky and renewed his old vow of allegiance to The Woman.



CHAPTER VII

The next day Francis carried out his cherished intention of being a "bit bad," and in violation of orders, surreptitiously mounted a "real horse" instead of his well-behaved little pony, and set out on adventure bound.

The horse, surprised at his burden, cantered casually along at first; then, resenting the intrusion, began to toss his head, snort and curvet about. The lad, a little frightened but game, kept his seat and the horse, seemingly ashamed to trifle longer with so small a foe, resumed his easy canter, though at a swifter pace than Francis was wont to ride. All might have ended well, had not Kurt in his home-made car suddenly sounded a blatant horn as he came around a curve. To his vision was disclosed a plunging horse and a small, fair-haired atom of a boy clinging to his neck. There was a forward plunge and the horse thundered on like mad along a narrow slant of road with never a slackening of speed.

Kurt cranked up for pursuit, but his crude craft was not built on speed lines, and he saw the distance fast eaten up between him and the frenzied horse. Then, with tiger swiftness, Kingdon's car, a motor of make, passed him, Gene at the wheel, Pen beside him. The sight gave him no hope. They could doubtless overtake the horse, but they could not stop him and if they could, the boy would be thrown.

Pen's clear young voice came like a clarion call:

"Stick tight, Francis! Burr-tight! We'll get you all right."

Gene steered the car to the cliff side of the road to prevent the peril of a plunge by the horse.

When the long, low racing car was nearly up to the Mazeppa flier, a thrill ran through Kurt as he saw Pen step out on the running board. He forgot the boy's danger as he divined her purpose.

The car closed in on the horse. The girl leaned far out, snatched the boy from the horse and climbed back into the car which now slowed up.

It was done in a second, so swiftly, so aptly that Kurt could only sit and gape with the sort of fore-knowledge that it must come out all right, as one gazes at a thrilling scene in a motion picture. When he came alongside the car, Gene looked up with a challenging grin. Francis, though pale and breathing quickly, wore a triumphant look. Pen's expression was entirely normal.

Kurt tried to speak, but his voice was dry in his throat.

"I stuck on, didn't I?" clamored Francis in satisfied tone.

Then Kurt recovered and began to reprimand the lad, but a certain sparkle in Pen's eyes as she clasped the lad to her restrained him.

He turned upon Gene.

"Did you know she was going to do that?"

"Sure!" was the confident reply. "I knew she could do it."

He flung Kingdon's racer into motion and slid on down the white ribbon of road to the ranch, while Kurt's little machine rattled and creaked and jolted along.

"He'll be sore at coming in after the black flag," chuckled Gene. "Kurt ain't used to being second, but I don't often get a chance at this car."

Kurt didn't come up to the house all that day until long after the dinner hour. He found Pen alone in the invitingly-furnished sitting room, the amber light from a shaded lamp bringing out the gleaming gold in her hair.

She looked up with a shy smile of welcome, and instantly he felt the charm a woman could bring to a room like this—a room full of rest and harmony—a haven to a man wearied from the day's work.

He sat by the table opposite her—too content to desire his pipe.

"Where are they all?" he asked presently.

"Francis was tired and repentant after the excitement wore off and was quite ready to go to bed early. Billy and Betty followed suit. Mrs. Merlin has a headache."

"How did you come to be riding with Gene this morning?" he asked abruptly.

"Mrs. Merlin asked us to go to her cottage for some things she needed. She thought Gene wouldn't be able to find them."

The natural tone of her reply and her utter lack of surprise or resentment at his question quite appeased him.

"It's a little cool to-night," he said suddenly. "Wouldn't you like to have a fire?"

She thought it would be nice, and interestedly watched him build one in the big fireplace.

He formed a fortress of logs with the usual huge one for a background. When he had a fire to his liking he came and sat beside her.

"That was wonderful—what you did this morning," he said abruptly.

"No; it was simply instinctive."

"It was a hair-breadth thing to do, but very brave."

"It wasn't bravery," she denied after a moment's reflection. "It was—I can't tell you just what it was."

"It made me bless the fate that led me to you that day."

"Then," she said lightly, but coloring confusedly, "I am glad I was able to do it—to repay you and Mrs. Kingdon in part. But where have you been all day?"

"I have been down in the farthest field."

"Working?"

"Yes; and thinking. Thinking of you—and what you did."

"Where did you have dinner?"

"I have had none. I am only just aware that I would like some. I came through the kitchen on my way in, but the cook didn't seem to be about."

"They are having some sort of entertainment in the mess hall."

"I am glad you didn't go," he said impetuously.

"I thought you would rather I didn't go," she replied docilely. "I will try to find you something to eat. Will you come and help me? Cook says you are a champion coffee maker."

They went through the kitchen into a smaller room.

"Betty calls this the 'kitchen yet!' But can you cook?" said Kurt.

"I am glad I won't be called upon to prove it. The larder's well larded, and I will set this little table while you make the coffee."

By the time the coffee was made, she had set forth an inviting little supper. She sat opposite him and poured the coffee. It seemed to him some way that it was the coziest meal he had eaten since his home days—the early home days before his mother died and he had gone to the prunish aunt.

"We must leave things as we found them," she told him when they could no longer make excuse for lingering.

"I feel in a very domestic mood," he said, as he wiped the few dishes.

"Do you know I have a very hearthy feeling myself. I know why a cat purrs. Everything is shipshape now. I'll say good night, and—"

"Come back to the fire," he entreated. "I want to smoke."

Back in the library Pen made herself comfortable on one of the window seats, pulling up the shade to let the moonlight stream in.

He followed and sat beside her, watching in silence the pensive, young profile, the straight little features, the parted lips, as she gazed away over the moonlit hills. He felt a strange yearning tenderness.

"Pen!"

She turned, a sweet, alluring look in her eyes.

"Pen!" he said again.

"Yes—Kurt."

Some alien, inexplicable force seemed to battle with his nature. His lips quivered and then compressed as if in a mighty resolution.

A moment later she slid from the window seat to the floor.

"It is late; good night!" she said quietly.

He rose, took her hand in his and said earnestly:

"Good night, Pen. I wish—"

Again he stopped abruptly.

"I know what you wish," she said in a matter of fact way; "you are wishing that I had never been—a thief."

The color flooded his face; embarrassment, longing and regret struggled visibly for mastery.

"Good night," she repeated, as she quickly sped from the room, leaving him speechless.

Upstairs in her room she stood by the window.

"Kurt," she soliloquized, "you've been weighed and found wanting. You don't know what love is. No man does. It is a woman's kingdom."

Then a radiant smile drove the reflective shadows from her eyes. There had burst forth a whistle, clear, keen, inspiring. Only one person in her world was so lark-like, so jubilant, so joyous of nature as to improvise such a trilling melody.

With an expectant smile she looked out and saw Jo crossing the moonlit lawn.

"Halloa, Jo!" she called softly.

He looked up, extended his cap at arm's length with a gay flourish and called:

"Bless your little heart of honey! What are you doing up so late?"

"Is it late?" she asked in arch surprise. "I'm so sorry, for I was going to say I'd come down for a little walk with you."

"'Deed, it's never too late for that; but say, little Penny Ante, Kurt is sitting in the library window—"

"I am not coming into view of the library window. Wait a moment! Catch this."

She picked up her sweater from the window seat and threw it down to him, stepped nimbly over the railing of the little balcony, made a quick spring, caught the branch of a nearby tree and slid down to earth.

"Say, you little squirrel! You'd make some sailor. It's hungry I've been for sight of you. I met Gene in town this afternoon and he told me about the wonderful stunt you pulled off this morning for Francis."

"That was nothing. But—have you come back, Jo?"

"Not yet. I'm motoring in from town and left my car down in the road. I just thought I'd pass by your window and let out a whistle for you."

"Jo, I came down to say something serious—"

"You can say anything you like to me, Miss Penny Ante," he replied encouragingly.

"Come away where no one can overhear our voices."

They strolled away out of the moonlight to the shelter of some shrubbery where they talked long and earnestly. On the way back to the house, Pen, lifting her eyes to his, was struck by the look in his boyish face.

"Jo," she said, a slight wistfulness in her tone, "you really love—the way a woman loves."

"What's the use," he said defiantly, "if the one I love won't have me—she—"

He stopped short and looked at her keenly.

"You know, Jo, you must learn to be patient and await—developments."

A light leaped to his eyes.

"I'll wait! But the limit mustn't be too far. Do you know what Gene confided to me to-night? He thinks that Kurt is in love with you!"

She laughed mirthlessly.

"Kurt! He wouldn't know how to love. If he did, he wouldn't let himself. He would hang on to his love like a Jew to a bargain. Who would want a grudging love?"

"Kurt is my pal—he—"

"He won't be if he finds us lingering here. You reconnoitre and see if he is still in the window. I don't intend to shinny up this tree. It's so much easier going down than up."

"You can go in the kitchen way. It's cook's affinity night, and she's somewhere with Gus."

"The kitchen is where I go in then. Jo, are you very sure that you are in love—enough to marry a thief? You're only a boy. Better keep your love until you are older."

"I am not a boy. I am two and twenty."

"Quite an old man! I'll see you very soon again, and maybe I can give you—your answer. Kurt goes to town early in the morning. Meet me in the pergola near the garage. Good night!"

By way of the kitchen and back stairs she reached her room undetected.

"Dear old Jo! Poor Kurt!" she thought sleepily, as she stretched herself luxuriously to rest. "It's a very small, very funny old world, and the thief is certainly getting in deep waters."

On the trail to Westcott's, Jo was chuckling to himself.

"The little thief! If she isn't the slickest little lass I ever saw!"

In the library, oblivious to time and place, Kurt still lingered, his dream-like memories trying to learn the tune that Pan was piping on his reeds.



CHAPTER VIII

At the breakfast-table Pen found at her plate a little bunch of flowers, clumsily arranged and tied.

"From Jo," informed Betty—"The Bulletin," as her father was wont to call her. "He came just after Uncle Kurt started for town."

Pen smiled as she took up the little stiff nosegay. She held it lightly for a moment, looking down at the blossoms. There was a mute appeal in the little messengers from the boyish lover. Something infinitely tender stirred in her heart for a second, bringing a tear to her eye, as she mused upon his boyish faith in love.

She put the flowers in the glass of water beside her plate, and gave her attention to the prattle of the children.

After breakfast she pinned the little nosegay to her middy and went down to the pergola.

Jo saw her coming and hurried forward to meet her, his eyes brightening when he saw the flowers.

"Thank you, Jo. They are very pretty."

"Thank you for wearing them."

"I asked you to come here this morning, Jo, so you would do me a favor."

"You know I would."

"Will you mail this letter for me? I wrote it last night after you left, and you are the only one I can trust. And—Jo—will you please not read the address?"

He put the letter in his pocket.

"You can trust me."

"You had better go, because I hear the rattle that can be made only by Kurt's car. He must have come back for something. You can go around the bend here."

"Say, Penny Ante, I don't like this deceiving him—"

"Just a bit longer, Jo," she said persuasively. "Mrs. Kingdon said to wait until her return."

He followed her instructions, and she returned to the house.

"It's a great possession," she thought musingly, "the big love of a true and simple heart like his. It would probably be idyllic to live a life of love up here in these hills with the man of one's choice, I suppose, but a happiness too tame for me. To be sure, there would be the excitement of trying to ruffle the love-feathers, but that, too, in time would pall. I wonder how much longer I shall stay hidden up here before my past finds me out. Any minute something is sure to drop and I will be called back—back to my other life that is less enticing now I have had a taste of domesticity.

"But," she reflected, "domesticity doesn't satisfy long. This semi-security is getting on my nerves. Hebby isn't so good a trailer as I feared he would be, or he'd have tracked me up here."

Her meditations were diverted by a tattoo upon her door which she had locked so that the ever-present, ever-prying Betty and the all-wise Francis could not intrude.

"Aunt Penny, let us in!" came in aggrieved chorus.

"I've a message for you, Aunt Pen. Open the door," came Francis' insistent voice.

The pounding and the voices forced a capitulation. She admitted the trio.

"Mrs. Merlin is going to take us to her house for the rest of the day," informed Francis, "and we will have a picnic dinner there. She would have asked you, too, only Uncle Kurt came back and wants you to ride with him. He didn't have to go 'way to town, 'cause he met the man he wanted to see on the way here."

"Now what has come over the spirit of his dreams?" Pen asked herself wonderingly as she got into her riding things. "Well, there is always the refuge of fast riding. That is the only time I can make my tongue behave. I'll give him no chance to preach, that's sure!"

When they set out on their ride, she was careful not to let the brisk pace falter. They stopped for luncheon at a ranch-house where there were many people at the table; but on the way home, when nearing the big bend, Kurt rode up to her; his detaining hand on the bridle slackened the speed she was striving to maintain.

"I want to say something to you," he began stiffly. "You mustn't think because I say nothing, that I am unmindful of what you have overcome—I—"

She stole a side glance at him. His eyes were as sombre and impenetrable as ever, but his chin worked nervously.

"You mean that I deserve a credit mark for not having lifted the children's banks, or helped myself to the family silver and jewels. It's sweet in you to put such trust in me and commend me for such heroic resistance!"

She jerked her bridle from his grasp and rode furiously on to the house, and had dismounted and escaped to her room before he could overtake her.



CHAPTER IX

Pen found the ranch-house quite deserted the next morning. Kurt had gone to Wolf Creek to purchase cattle and would not return until night. A little scrawled note from Francis apprised her of the fact that Mrs. Merlin was taking himself, Billy and Betty to spend the day at her own home.

"A whole day alone for the first time in ages!" she thought exultingly. "It is surely Pen Lamont's day. What shall I do to celebrate? Stop the clock and play with the matches? I must do something stupendous. I know. I will go into town and shop. I will go in style, too."

She took Kingdon's racing car out of the garage, and was soon speeding down the hills with the little thrill of ecstasy that comes from leaving a beaten track.

In town she left the car in front of the hotel and went down the Main street, looking in dismay at the windows loaded with assorted and heterogeneous lots of feminine apparel. At last she came to a little shop with but three garments on display, all of them quite smart in style.

"You must be a 'lost, strayed or stolen,'" she apostrophized in delight.

She went within and purchased two gowns with all the many and necessary accessories thereto.

"Lucky, Kind Kurt and Bender didn't search me that day," she thought. "I never saw a sheriff or a near-sheriff so slack. If they'd been in my business, they'd have known that you can't always tell what's in the pocket of a ragged frock."

She visited in turn a shoe store, a soda water fountain and a beauty shop. Then it was the town time for dining, and she returned to the hotel.

"I shouldn't have exhausted the resources of the town so soon," she thought ruefully, as she stood in the office after registering. "I don't know what I will do this afternoon unless I sit in a red plush chair in the Ladies' Parlor and gaze out through the meshes of a coarse lace curtain at the passers-by. I might call on Bender and see if he'd remember me. Bet his wife would. Maybe something interesting will come along, though."

Something did. It came in the shape of a lean, brown-faced young man.

"Larry, Larry!" she cried. "It's a homecoming to see you. I hadn't any idea what part of the world you were in. What are you doing here?"

"The Thief!" he exclaimed, his dark eyes beaming with pleasure.

"Not so loud. I am Pen Lamont, at present. Incog, you see, under my real name, the least known of any. So don't squeal on me."

"I never gave anyone away yet, Pen, dear. What are you doing in this neck o' the woods?"

"I am in hiding in the hills—at a ranch—quite domesticated. My first glimpse of a home. Like it better than I supposed I could."

"You'd better watch out. Hebler is up in these parts somewhere, I hear. He'll get you yet, Pen!"

"Hebler! You make my heart stop beating. I hit this trail more to escape him than anything else. What is he here for?"

"For you, I fancy. I ran across Wilks the other day and he said he heard Hebler say, 'He'd get that thief if he never did another thing.' So lay low. Are you here alone in town to-day?"

"Alone and untethered for the first time in ages. Same with you?"

"You're right as to the alone part; but I am not altogether free. I have to give an exhibition fool flight this afternoon in my little old flier. We'll have dinner together, and the rest of the day. Will you?"

"Will I? Try me."

"What's the idea, Pen?" he asked as they went into the long dining-room and chose a remote table.

"I don't know, Larry. I had one, but I seem to have lost it in trying to pick up others. I'm floundering."

"You've always been in wrong, Pen. Wish you'd find your level. You made me ashamed of my old life. I am string-straight now, thanky."

"I am glad, Larry. You never were crooked, you know—just a bit reckless. Tell me about yourself."

"You gave me a good steer when you suggested this sky stuff. I don't believe a flying man could be very bad—up there in the clouds in a world all his own. Whenever I felt as if I must break over the traces and go off for a time, I'd just get into my little old flier and hit the high spots and that would give me more thrills than all the thirst parlors ever brought. I am going soon to fly for France. In fact, I'm 'on my way' now."

"Larry! I am proud of you! But it tugs at my heartstrings to have you go, and in an aeroplane!"

"Did you ever go up, Pen?"

"No; it's about the only exciting thing I haven't done, and it's the only stunt I ever lacked the nerve to tackle."

"Terrors of the unknown? I'm booked for some of that fancy flying this afternoon, and you can watch me from the field."

"I knew this was to be a real day, but I never hoped for such a big handful of luck as seeing you again and in such a good act."

"Always invest heavily in hope, Pen. It is free to all, and you come out ahead because you get your dividends in anticipating anyway, and you know anticipation—"

"Hold on, Larry, don't be a bromide!"

"Everyone is a bromide now. Sulphides are all in the asylums. I am hoping for a chance to win the medal militaire—I mean for the chance to do something worth getting one."

Pen's pleasure in her surreptitious expedition, the delight in shopping and the excitement of meeting some one from her former life had brought a most vivid beauty to her delicate face, and Larry looked at her with an approval that brought forth a sudden wonder.

"Say, Pen!" he exclaimed excitedly, "you haven't got a man up there at your ranch, have you?"

"Certainly; two of them," she replied assuredly.

"That's all right. So long as there are two, it's nothing serious. Safety in numbers, remember."

After dinner they motored out to the field where the exhibition was to be given. A coatless, tanned, weather-beaten crowd had already gathered.

Pen stood apart from the spectators, watching Larry whirl, turn turtle, and perform all the aviation agonies so fascinating to the untutored. When he shut off the engine and swung down, skimming the ground for a way and stopping gently, she was in waiting nearby.

"I loathe this kind of exhibition work!" he declared. "It's silly stuff, but it's what the public wants. Sure you don't want to try a little straight flight?" he tempted.

"N—o, Larry. Vice versa for mine, as the Irishman said."

"All right. Here, Meder!" he said to the mechanic, who had come up. "Take care of the flier. I'll see you later at the hotel."

"It was wonderful, Larry," said Pen as they were motoring to town. "I seem to see you from such a new angle now. I have always thought of you as a lovable, happy-go-lucky boy, but when I saw you take the air, I knew you had come to be something far different. You have the hawk-sense of balance, the sixth sense—the sense woman was supposed to have a monopoly of till the day of aeroplanes arrived. You had nerve to go up there and yet you were not nervous."

"A fellow has to be without nerve and yet nervy," explained Larry. "If he loses his sense of equilibrium up there, it's all off; yet he has to be always ready to take a chance and to find one."

"And, Larry—when you fly to the colors—"

"To the tricolors," he interrupted.

"It will bring out the biggest and bravest and best there is in you, Larry. I am so glad! Don't go out of my life again. Let me hear from you when you get over."

"I was sore, Pen, when you handed me such a lecture, though it was coming to me all right. But it stuck, and the time came when I was grateful. When I found I could make good, I couldn't find you. I wrote every one of the crowd or went to see them, but you had mysteriously disappeared. Hebby said you must have been run in."

"Was; but luck was with me again. I will give you an address that will always reach me."

"I shall never go up, Pen, without thinking of you and to-day. But you have told me very little of yourself. Are you still—"

"The thief? Not at present. I am enjoying an interlude; but there are times when virtue palls, but I mean to keep out of Hebler's clutches. Larry, I believe I will let you out here—on the edge of the town—the main street. I have a long ride before me. It's lonesome to say good-bye."

"I expect to be in two or three days yet—waiting for some mail."

"I wish I might see you again, Larry, but I don't know how I can manage it. If anyone knew I were in town to-day, it might lead to—developments. Send me your address at the port you are to sail from, and I'll have things there for you."

"Good-bye, Pen. You're the best little scout I ever knew."

He kissed her and got out of the car. There were tears in her eyes as she motored on up through the hills land. The air grew cold and brisk; she felt the sense of silence and strength. She recalled her first ride up these hills in the early morning, and that turned her thoughts to Kurt. She wondered if he were of the stuff that bird men are made of. How much more sphinx-like he was, and how different from the keen, alert, business-like flier Larry had shown himself to be! They were types as remote as the eagle and the lark. Larry, of course, was the lark. She had a feeling of loneliness in her knowledge of his going so far away. He knew more about her than any one else. She never had to play a part with him.

Soon, all too soon, she found herself at the ranch. Dinner was over and the children had gone upstairs with Mrs. Merlin.

Kurt returned a few moments later and came into the library where she sat alone by the open fire, pensive and distrait, still thinking of Larry and of his going into service.

He looked at her oddly. This was not the pert, saucy, little girl he had taken from Bender, nor the little playmate of the children, nor yet the quiet, domestic woman who had served him that night in the kitchen.

There was an indefinable charm about her that defied definition or analysis—a rapt, exquisite look that lifted her up—up to his primitive ideal.

"Pen!"

He started toward her, seemed to remember, hesitated and then asked lamely:

"What have you been doing all day?"

Her former little air of raillery crept back momentarily at his change of tone.

"A narrow escape," she thought, as she said aloud, reckless of consequences: "I motored into town by myself; bought some new clothes; had dinner with an old friend; saw an aeroplane go up and—"

He smiled in a bored way and asked her some irrelevant question.

"The easiest way to deceive, as Hebby always said, is to tell the truth," she thought.

"Pen!" He spoke with a return of his first manner. "I—"

"I am very tired," she quickly interrupted, "I think I will say good-night, now."

"Don't go yet," he urged, "I—"

"I want to be alone," she replied wearily.

"There is something I want to say to you. Jo Gary comes to-morrow!"

"Yes," she answered indifferently. "Mr. Westcott found another manager, did he?"

"You knew Jo was at Westcott's?" he gasped.

"Certainly. I've seen Jo a number of times."

"When, where?" he demanded in displeased tone.

"Let me think. Why, he came back from Westcott's the day after my arrival. Their manager postponed departure. So Jo was here for the dance, and on field day—and—I think he went back to Westcott's the day you came back. Wasn't it all right to see him?" she asked guilelessly. "Mrs. Kingdon didn't object."

"What other times did you see him?"

"I heard him whistle one night, and I slid down the big tree near my window. Then he came one morning to bring me flowers. I am glad he is coming for keeps. He livens things up, Jo does."

"Why did neither you nor he speak of your having met?"

"I begged him not to, because I felt that you wouldn't approve."

An intense silence followed.

"Do you think," he asked bitterly, "that you are fair to Jo—"

"To Jo?" she asked in surprise. "I don't understand."

"You do understand. Jo told me what he asked you in Chicago and how you left him—to reform—to be worthy of his love."

"I haven't deceived Jo," she replied slowly. "I told him where you found me and why. He doesn't care. He understands. Jo loves—"

The pause that followed was so prolonged that she stole another side-glance. She had a sudden, swift insight into the power and vigor of the man—the inner man.

"That the girl he loves," she continued softly, "is a thief, makes no difference to Jo."

"Remember, Jo is only a boy—younger than you in all but years."

"Only a boy, it is true, but with the faith and love of a man."

He started from his chair and came up close to her.

"Answer me," he said, his eyes narrowing to slits. "Do you love Jo Gary?"

A sort of paralysis seemed to grip her, and she felt helpless to move her eyes from his. Her lips were slightly parted and he could feel the pull of her nerves. For a moment she looked like a startled deer, quivering at the approach of man, with no place to run.

Then she recovered.

"Ask Jo," she said defiantly, and sped from the room.

"Jo didn't tell me how much he had confided in Kurt," she thought. "What a wee world it is! I can't see how, with all the shuffling billions of people, the same two, once parted, should ever meet. I believe I was wrong about Kurt. For a moment I was almost afraid of him."

Kurt gazed into the fire, his gray eyes alert and a soft smile on his lips. He had not been misled. He had clearly read an answer in the young eyes looking into his own.

"She doesn't love Jo," he thought, and the knowledge was quickly darkened by the remembrance of what it would mean to the boy-lover.



CHAPTER X

"Jo!" called Pen, running down the road as she spied him driving away in a lightweight mountain wagon.

Quickly he reined in the pair of prancing horses.

"What 'tis, Miss Penny Ante? Isn't it great that I am back to stay?"

"Indeed it is. Where are you going and may I go, too?"

"Over to Westcott's, and I'd love to have you go with me."

"I'll have to get a furlough and a hat. Just wait a moment."

She found Kurt and asked his permission with all the pretty pleading of a child in her voice. Her face was singularly young; her eyes like a mirror.

"I've never ridden in a wagon," she said breathlessly, seeing that his expression wasn't as forbidding as usual. "And I'll come back. Can't you see I want to come back?"

Something sweet dawned in his eyes.

"Yes;" he said, a note of exultation sounding in his voice with the knowledge that his last stand of resistance to long-held theories was giving away before some new force, powerful and overwhelming. "You may go. I wish I were driving instead of Jo, but—"

He stood watching her as she sped back to where Jo was waiting, and his gaze still followed as the horses tore over the road to Westcott's. There was a far-away look in his eye and a faint smile about the curves of his mouth. Subconsciously, as though he were the one beside her, he followed in fancy after the wagon was lost to sight around the hills. He could see the point where the road would disappear into a plain, covered with soft grass over which the sleek horses would bound. He knew Jo's irresistible bubbling gaiety, and the sparkle she would add to it. He wondered why he had never thought to take her for a drive. There had been no chance to talk to her in their rides. She always put spurs to her horse when he tried to talk to her.

All sense of time left him. The symphony of the hill winds from the south was in his ears; the beauty of the day in all his being. Vividly he recalled their ride in the early dawn and the brief moment she had lain unconscious in his arms. Ever since that moment he had barricaded himself against her appeal and charm. He felt himself yielding and knew that the yielding was bringing him happiness.

"I am in a Fool's Paradise," he thought, "but still a Paradise. She doesn't care for me any more than she cares for Jo. I wonder does he know it, or is she deceiving him? I fear so, for he seems absurdly happy."

He was still lost in the dreams of the lotus-eater when he heard something that resembled the rattling of his own noisy car. Looking down the hill road from town, he saw a vehicle approaching which he recognized as the "town taxi." It turned into the ranch grounds and he quickly went to the front of the house, supposing that Kingdon or his wife must have returned.

A strange young girl was alighting. As he went wonderingly to meet her, he saw that she was city-bred. She seemed to be dazed by the illimitable spaces and was blinking from the sunshine. His observant eye noted the smart suitcase and the wardrobe trunk the man was depositing on the porch. There was city shrewdness in having had the amount of the fare fixed before leaving town.

She was a little slip of a girl with a small-featured face and a certain pale prettiness. There was an appealing tinge of melancholy in her eyes notwithstanding they were eager and alert. Her dress was plain, but natty and citified.

"Is this Top Hill—where Mrs. Kingdon lives?" she asked in a low, softly-pitched voice.

"Yes;" he replied, "but Mrs. Kingdon is away—"

"I know—but she wrote me to come here; that she would be home very soon."

"I am glad to hear that. Come in," he urged hospitably, as he picked up her suitcase. "The housekeeper will make you comfortable."

She hesitated.

"Is Miss Lamont in?"

"Miss Lamont—Miss Pen Lamont?" he asked in surprise. "She is a friend of yours?"

"Yes," she replied composedly.

"She has gone for a drive, but she will be back soon."

She followed him within and stood gazing at the pleasant interior,—books, pictures, piano and fireplace, while he went to summon the housekeeper.

"Mrs. Merlin, this is a friend of Mrs. Kingdon's," he said on his return. "Will you show her to one of the guest rooms?"

"Oh!" exclaimed the girl in expostulary tone, "I am not a guest. My name is—Bobbie Burr. Mrs. Kingdon hired me to do plain sewing for the children and to care for the linen."

There was no trace of a seamstress in the plain but elegant garb and appointments of the young girl, and Mrs. Merlin was at a loss as to the proper establishment of the newcomer.

"Maybe," she said to Kurt hesitatingly, "the room the last nursery governess had—"

"Any room will do," said the girl hurriedly, as she followed Mrs. Merlin.

Kurt went down the road which Jo and Pen had taken. He felt the need of a pipe and solitude to help him figure out this puzzling problem, and soon he was sending a jet of smoke up to the branches of the tree which he had selected for a resting place.

Who was this girl whose belongings betokened money, and yet who said she had come to do plain sewing? Enlightenment came with the recollection that she had been sent by Mrs. Kingdon and was doubtless one of her protegees. The name she had given sounded demimondish, and she was a friend of Pen's! The thought made him wince. She had seemed to him some way isolated from her kind, with naught in common with them save her profession. To find he was mistaken brought him an unpleasant shock.

A sound of wheels around the curve; the clatter of hoofs. In a moment they came into his vision—the prancing team, the merry driver and—the thief. Delicate as a drop of dew, as lovely as a forest blossom, her voice, bird-like and rippling, wafted to him from the clear aromatic air, she inverted again all his theories and resolutions.

He walked toward them, his hand raised.

Jo reined in.

"Will you get out and walk up to the house with me?" Kurt asked her, the question given in the form and tone of command.

"A friend of yours is at the house," he said abruptly, when Jo had driven on and was outside of hearing.

"A friend of mine!" she repeated, losing a little of the wild rose tint in her fear that Hebler might have arrived.

"So she says. Mrs. Kingdon sent her here to sew for the children."

"How you relieve me! I was fearing it might be a man."

"Her name," he said, "is Bobbie Burr."

"What!" Her voice had a startled note. "Bobbie Burr! Oh, yes; I remember her."

"Is she a particular friend of yours?"

"I am more attracted by her than by any girl I ever knew. Let's sit down in the shade of one of the few-and-far-between trees you have up here. You were interested in my welfare when you took me from Bender, but you will be doubly interested in Bobbie when you hear her story. She is a convert far more worthy of your efforts and those of Mrs. Kingdon than I have proved to be.

"She is the type you thought I was before you snatched me from the burning—I mean from Bender. Let me see if I can quote you correctly: 'One of the many young city girls who go wrong because they have no chance; bred in slums, ill-treated, ill-fed.' Poor Bobbie had no chance until—you'll be skeptical when I tell you how she first received her moral uplift—she had some nice clothes. Stealing was her only vice! At that, she only took enough to meet her needs; but one day she found some money; quite a lot, it seemed to her. Down in her little fluttering fancy she had always had longings for a white dress—a nice white dress. She had the inherent instinct for judging rightly 'what she should wear.' So, for the first time in her life she was able to be correctly and elegantly clad. The white dress she bought was simple, one of the plain but effective and expensive kind. With the wearing of this new gown there naturally came the feminine desire to be seen and admired. She didn't know where to go. She had never been a frequenter of dance halls. She knew, of course, there were few open sesames for her. She went to one where no questions are asked before admittance. Things didn't look good to her at this Hurricane Hall, and she thought her doll was filled with sawdust until the inevitable man appeared and changed her angle of vision. He was that most unusual apparition, a nice, honest man. He saw her; she saw him; after that there were no others visible in their little world.

"Within twenty-four hours he had told her of his love and asked her to marry him. Then—I tried to convince you thieves could be honest—she was brave enough to tell him what she was. He was a true knight and lover. Her confession didn't alter his feelings or his intentions; in fact, his determination to marry her was strengthened. Because she loved him very much, she ran away from him, leaving him in a strange city without even her name for a clue. But now she had a hope, a real incentive—the biggest one there is. She pawned all the coveted clothes she had bought and went to a place far away where she could begin a new life—the life of an honest working-girl.

"In her little game with destiny, she lost out, and was apprehended for a theft of which she was entirely innocent, but her past record barred acquittal. A man was instrumental in gaining a reprieve for her, however, and she was sent away to new environment where she found friends, health and, best of all, a job.

"So the desire was born in her to turn the proverbial new leaf, not for the sake of winning her 'man,' but from the simple wish to be 'good.' I interested Mrs. Kingdon in her and told her where she was, but did not dream of such good luck for—Bobbie as to be sent up here. I know she will find happiness up here in these hills. You'll be kind to the little girl, won't you?" she pleaded. "You know you haven't much mercy for sinners, but you will see she is serious about reforming; not flippant like me. She will never yield to temptation again."

"How do you know?" he asked, looking at her keenly.

"Because," she answered softly. "She loves, and—the man she loves is worthy of her."

"And you think love is powerful enough to cure?"

"I think so."

"Would it cure—you?"

"I don't know," she said ingenuously. "You see I have never loved."

A fervid light smouldered in his eyes.

"Aunty Pen!"

Francis came running around the curve.

"There is a nice girl at the house. Mother sent her. She's got a boy's name—Bobbie. I like her. She does anything I tell her to."

"That's the masculine measure," she said, taking his hand and running on with him.

"Come back!" was the strident summons from Kurt.

"Stay here a moment," Pen hurriedly bade Francis.

"I want to ask you how this girl is able to have such expensive looking things—if she has only a job?"

"They were given to her."

"By the man who was instrumental in getting her reprieved? You said she was virtuous."

"Don't do the man an injustice, even if you doubt poor little Bobbie. He acted from charitable motives. He has never seen her, or tried to see her."

"Look at me, Pen!"

"I'm looking. You have the true Western eye—the eye of a sharpshooter and a—sheriff."

"The story you just told me is the story of Marta Sills. Is that her name or yours?"

"It belongs to us both. Being 'particular pals,' we shared alike. Interchange of names often comes handy with us."

"Was it you or Bobbie Burr—the girl who just came—whom Jo met in a dance hall, and took to St.—some place on Lake Michigan?"

"Dear me! You cattlemen are such gay birds when you come to a city! How can I tell how many girls Jo Gary took to a dance hall? If that St. Something was St. Joe, he must have gone there to get married. It's what most people go there for, and probably he's no more saintly than the place is. Maybe it was named after him."

"Tell me! Was it Bobbie Burr?"

"She never mentioned Jo Gary's name to me, so how do I know. Yes, Francis; coming."

She ran fleetly on to join the boy who was impatiently calling to her.

"Marta! How the plot does thicken!" she thought as she ran a race with Francis to the house. "Now we're all here but Hebby. What next? Curtain soon, I expect. No need longer for understudies. I must start things before Kurt succumbs to her charms. That little subdued, clinging-vine air she has is most appealing to his type. He'll come to forgive her anything."

"Marta," she said quickly, as she met the young girl, "come upstairs with me."

She locked the door as soon as they were in her room.

"Now tell me all about yourself and everything that has happened since I last saw you."

Beaming with the excitement that comes from narrative of self, the newcomer talked animatedly for some time.

"And," she concluded, "Mrs. Kingdon said you told her all about me, and she sent me a ticket to come here. And it's lovely up here, isn't it? She told me I'd better keep to the name of Bobbie Burr for the present, until she came anyway."

"I should say!" agreed Pen. "Marta Sills might land you in most unpleasant places. But, Marta, that man you told me about, whose name you didn't mention?"

"Yes, Miss Lamont. I try not to think of him."

"Marta, why did you tell him that you stole. You could have married him. He'd never have known. And you and he could both have been happy."

In the girl's wondering eyes, Pen read a mute rebuke.

"I'd rather lose him forever than deceive him!"

"Marta," said Pen impressively, "Diogenes should have known you."

"Who is he, Miss Lamont?"

"Never mind, Marta. I thought I knew what love meant, but I see I didn't until now. If I loved a man as you do yours, I would stop stealing if I had to cut my hands off to do it."

"I have stopped. I know now that I could have stopped long ago, if any one had given me the right boost, or made me want to stop."

Just then Pen's eyes caught sight of a trunk in the corner of her room.

"What's that here for?" she asked.

"Oh, please, Miss Lamont, I brought it to you. I never touched anything in it. I earned enough to buy what I am wearing and a few things in my suitcase, besides what I had on that day—"

"Marta, that's sweet in you. I am beginning to feel I'd like to tog once more. I shall reward you. But first, will you do something for me?"

"You know I will be glad to do anything."

"I want a note delivered. I'll write it now."

Hastily she wrote a few lines at her desk.

"Come with me, Marta. We'll have to go to a certain vine-clad pergola by devious routes to avoid three wise children and one suspicious and formidable foreman."

By much circumambulation the two girls reached the pergola unseen.

"You sit here for a few moments, Marta, and the person to whom you are to give the note will come to you."

Pen walked on to the barracks where she met Jo.

"Will you do something for me, Jo? Right away, quick?"

"Sure thing, Miss Penny Ante. What did his nibs want?"

"Never mind, now. Go to the pergola and receive a note from me. Now don't be stupid. Do as you are told,—like a good soldier does."

With a laugh Jo started in swinging gait for the place indicated, but he was halted several times by some of the men who wanted directions for their work.

After waiting patiently, Marta concluded Pen's plans had miscarried, so she started for the house, but becoming confused as to turns, she went toward the barracks.

To a little girl whose life had been spent in slums and reformatories, the big spaces and silences were more appalling than the wildest hours of traffic on misguided State Street. She had a strange inclination to walk down hill backward that she might not see what other ascension must be made.

"If I'd only been born as high up as this, maybe I'd never have got down so low," she philosophized.

She came around a bend in the road. A man was approaching. He looked up.

"Marta, oh, Marta!"

"Jo!" she cried wildly, looking about for retreat.

Another second, in his arms, she thought no longer of flight.

"Marta, how did you ever get here?" Wild astonishment was visible in Jo's eyes.

"Mrs. Kingdon sent for me. I've been killed with kindness ever since that night I saw you, Jo. I didn't know you were here. Miss Lamont told me to stay in that place where the vines are until a man came, and to give him this note; but that was long ago. I came out and lost my way. Are you the man she meant?"

"I must be."

"Does she know that you—that we—"

"Sure she knows. Give me the note."

He removed the little folded paper from the envelope and read it aloud:

"DEAR JO: Here is your heart-ease. Don't let doubt kill your love. Just take Marta. A woman loves an audacious lover.

"Yours, "PENNY ANTE."

"I feel sort of crazy. Gee, Marta, but it's great to be crazy! Let's sit down here and talk about it. You don't need to tell me much. She told me. Why didn't you let me hear from you?"

"I wanted to be sure, Jo. I'm not going to make excuses for myself, but I had it handed to me hard. Whenever I thought I'd like to be like other folks, some one would give me a shoveback, and then I felt cornered and that it was no use. Sometimes—most always—I was down and out. Then I'd hit a little lucky wave and go up. It was one of those times I saw you in that dance hall."

"That was my lucky wave. I can see you now as you sat away from the rest—so little and so different-looking from those tough ones."

"And I can see you—alone, by yourself; you looked different from anyone I'd ever seen, so healthy and jolly and kind. I saw you looking at me and knew right off what you thought—that I was straight and had got in the wrong place by mistake. And I let you think so and let you get to know me. And we danced and talked till near sunrise. That lovely day over at St. Joe! I thought I was in Heaven until we were in that little park and you asked me to marry you. First time a real man ever asked me that. I wasn't low enough to fool you then. When you said it made no difference, I knew you were too good for me, and it made me love you so much that I had to run away."

"It was sure great in you to tell me, Marta."

"You know how I got help and hope; but I'm not Marta now, Jo. Not any more. I'm Bobbie Burr."

"You'll always be Marta. But it makes no difference; you'll soon be changing your name for keeps. You can't ever lose me, now, and love has Mrs. Kingdon and all the rest of them beat for what you call reforming."

"If I had only known long ago that there were folks like you and Mrs. Kingdon and—"

"Never mind long ago. There's nothing to it. Let's talk about the little shack we are going to put up in these hills somewhere. Like it?"

"It seems like a beautiful dream up here, Jo. Too good for me."

He looked down into the kitten face with its eyes of Irish blue.

"Nothing in the world is too good for you, my Marta."

"Miss Lamont said I could play I had died and been born again. She said it was a good way to turn over a new leaf."

"You will be born again as Mrs. Jo Gary."

Time went very swiftly then, and it was Marta who realized Pen might be expecting to see her.

"Please start me in the right direction, Jo."

"I'll take you to the house myself," said Jo protectingly.

As they came around a curve in the road that wound its way upward and downward, they encountered Kurt.

"This is Miss Sills, Mr. Walters," introduced Jo proudly—"the little girl I told you about when I came from Chicago. We are engaged."

She looked up a little fearfully at the stern-looking young foreman. She was surprised and relieved at the kindly look in the steel-gray eyes. He took one of her little hands in his strong brown ones. He was ashamed that his instinct told him it was the typical hand of a thief, slim, smooth and deft-fingered.

"Let me congratulate you, Jo, and you, too, Marta. Jo is my friend."

Tears came into her eyes and her little mouth puckered pathetically.

"Say, Kurt, you're a brick!" exclaimed Jo heartily. "I was afraid—you know you said—"

He stopped in confusion.

"Forget everything I said, old man. I was a grouch then and I didn't know—anything. I know better now. But Marta, why did you tell me your name was Bobbie Burr."

"Mrs. Kingdon told me to use that name until—"

"Until she has her right name, Marta Gary," finished Jo.

Kurt smiled condoningly.

"Mrs. Kingdon always knows what is best."

"That is what Miss Lamont said. She said that with Jo to love me and Mrs. Kingdon to advise me I couldn't help but be—what I want to be."

"Did she say that?" he asked eagerly, a light in his eyes. "She was right."

"She left out her help. It was Jo that first made me want to be straight, but it was Miss Lamont who gave me the chance. Isn't she grand, Mr. Walters? She has such a kind heart."

"Will you tell me something about her, Marta? Is—"

He stopped abruptly. It wouldn't be just the right thing to cross-examine this little girl about her "particular pal."

"I'll see you again, soon," he said, and went on to the garage.

The sound of Jo's jolly laugh with the little added tender note made him turn and look after them. They had stopped on their way and were looking into each other's eyes, oblivious to all else but the happiness to be found in the kingdom of love and youth.

Silhouetted on the crest of the hill they stood—Jo, lean, long and picturesque in his rough clothes; Marta, neat and natty from her little pumps to her shining yellow hair smoothed back over her forehead.

With the feeling that he also was initiated into the Great Brotherhood and had recognized the tokens of membership, he went about his tasks, seeing a vision of a girl with a sweetness in her eyes that often belied the bantering of her tone.

When he came up to dinner, Pen's place was vacant.

"Bobbie won't eat with us," explained Francis. "Nora didn't, you know. Aunt Pen thought she might be lonesome eating her first meal all alone, so they are having their dinner together."

Marta's words, "she has such a kind heart," came back to him.

"She is right," he said. "Marta knows."

And suddenly there was born in him a deep compassion for all women of her kind. In vain he waited for Pen in the library that night. But, feeling she was in deep waters, Pen had resolved to stay in her room.



CHAPTER XI

Outside her door Pen found Betty waiting expectantly.

"Bobbie gave us a nickel apiece not to disturb you," she began glibly. "She said you had a headache last night. And father's come home and brought a man with him. And mother's coming soon."

Pen found herself only languidly interested in these announcements. She listened distraitly to the prattle of the children who surrounded her while she was served with toast and coffee.

"Father and the man are motoring around the ranch," said Francis, "but they will be back to lunch."

This roused her to the extent of making a more elaborate toilet than usual. She came into the library shortly before the luncheon hour, clad in one of the gowns she had taken from the trunk Marta had brought, her hair done with exquisite care.

"Why, Aunty Pen!" cried Betty. "You look so different. You look grown up."

"I am, Betty," she said gravely.

"Miss Pen!" exclaimed Kingdon, coming forward. "Our hills have gotten in their curative powers speedily. I was afraid you were of the lily family, but I see you are a bud of the rose."

While she was replying to his banter, Kurt came into the room. She felt a little feminine thrill of pleasure in his look of unspoken admiration.

"I left my guest, Mr. Hebler, down at the stables," continued Kingdon. "Billy, run down and tell him it is nearly time for luncheon. I made a new acquaintance while I was away," he explained to Pen. "Bruce Hebler. I persuaded him to stop off on his way out to California."

Pen's eyes dilated slightly, and the color left her face, as she made some excuse for leaving the room. Kurt followed, intercepting her in the hallway.

"This Hebler is some one you have met before?" he asked, looking at her keenly.

"Yes; did I show it so plainly? I don't want to see him, or let him know I am here."

"You are afraid of him?"

"Y-e-s."

"He has some power over you—the power to take you away?"

"Yes; a power prior to yours."

"A legal one?"

"Yes."

"You can keep to your room," he said reassuringly. "That is, for the afternoon. Westcott has invited Mr. Kingdon and this man to dinner and for cards afterward. You can easily stay away from the breakfast room in the morning. I think he is going to leave in a day or so. I'll think up some excuse for your not appearing."

"Oh!" she said whimsically. "You will—lie for me?"

He flushed.

"I want Mrs. Kingdon to be your custodian—not this man."

"So do I," she said. "But I forget I am in custody up here."

"I am wondering," he said in a troubled tone, "how we can prevent the children from speaking of you before this man? And Kingdon, too, is sure to mention your name."

"Oh, that will do no harm. He won't know whom they mean. He doesn't know me by my own name. I told you I had a great many convenient aliases. Remember?"

"Yes," he replied shortly. "I remember."

She went to her room, and presently Marta came in with her luncheon, some books and a message of sympathy from Kingdon. In spite of these distractions, time dragged and it was with a sigh of relief that she saw Kingdon and his guest motoring toward Westcott's.

"Poor old Hebby! Just as hawk-nosed and lynx-eyed as ever. The last place he'd think of looking for me would be behind these curtains. It's worth being a prisoner for an afternoon to know I have eluded him once more."

When she came down to dinner, Kurt was again visibly impressed by her appearance. She wore another of her recently acquired gowns, a black one of sheer filmy material. Her hair, rippling back from her brows, was coiled low. Her face was pale and yet young and flowerlike. There was a new touch of wistfulness about her—a charm of repose, almost of dignity.

Later, when the children had gone upstairs, she went into the dimly lighted sitting-room and sat down at the piano, touching softly and lightly the notes of a minor melody, an erratic little air rising and falling in a succession of harmonies.

"Pen!"

She turned exquisite eyes to Kurt's ardent gaze.

"I like you in this dress. I didn't know dress could so alter a person." There was the tone of unrepressed admiration in his voice.

"Hebby is right," she thought with a fleeting smile. "He said there was something very effective about black to men—especially to men who know nothing about clothes."

"I must ask you something," he continued, speaking in troubled tone. "This man Hebler—does he know—"

She stopped playing.

"He knows me as you know me, as the thief, and he knows—something else about me."

Her fingers again found their way to the keys.

Reluctantly he found himself succumbing to the witchery of her plaintive tone and her quivering lips. Then he rallied and said relentlessly.

"Something worse?"

"Is there anything worse than stealing?" she asked artlessly. "His acquaintance with me is not exactly of a personal nature. He admits but one of my shortcomings—that he never knows where to find me—literally. He'd think so more than ever if he could see me now."

"Does he love you?"

She stopped playing, rose from the piano bench and with an odd little laugh, crossed the room to the window seat. He followed.

"Hebby love me? Well, no! There have been times when I think he positively hated me. But I wish he hadn't come. He brings up—unpleasant memories."

"Then let's talk of something pleasant—very pleasant. About Marta, Jo's Marta. I met them together yesterday. I had my answer to the question I asked you."

"They are very happy," she said wistfully. "I am so glad."

"Pen, why did you make me think, that first day I met you, that it was you Jo met and loved in Chicago?"

"Did I make you think so? You assumed I was the one and I—well, I wouldn't have presumed to dispute the assertion of anyone in a sheriff line. It's safer not."

"You asked me not to be hard on little Marta. Who could be? Not even the man you seem to think me to be. I'll do all in my power to help them to build a little home in the hills. And she does love him."

"Yes," she said softly. "She does."

He looked at her with a little ache in his throat. The moonlight was full on her partly averted face; her profile, clear-cut, delicate, was like a medallion.

"Pen—could you love me?"

The words seemed wrung from him in spite of an apparent determination not to utter them.

She turned and looked straight into his eyes.

"That isn't what you should ask me, unless, you—"

"I do," he said passionately.

"You didn't—want to."

"No; frankly, I didn't want to; but I did—I do."

"Why?" she asked curiously, watching the fine little lines about his eyes deepen.

"I've been fighting it since I met you—because—"

"Because I am a thief," she finished unconcernedly. "Do you remember that night when we were here alone—you started to tell me you loved me, didn't you?"

"Yes," he admitted slowly.

"Then you remembered what I was, and your love wasn't big enough to let you finish."

"That wasn't the reason I hesitated," he said quickly, "then or—other times. The reason I didn't yield to my desire was because I knew it wouldn't be fair to Jo. Remember, I thought until Marta came that you were his."

She looked her discomfiture.

"I forgot that," she said in a low sympathetic tone.

"No;" he resumed meditatively. "You don't know what a man's love is."

"A man's love," she replied, a slight catch in her voice, "is infinitesimal compared to a woman's."

"Let me show you, Pen. You shall love me! We'll go far away from here—"

"You're ashamed of me! Jo wouldn't ask Marta to go far away. Your's is a little love—a love that doesn't dare venture on an uncharted sea."

"Pen," he said tensely, "I tell you that I love you! Don't you understand?"

He put his arm about her—bent down.

There was a quiet reproach in her star-like eyes as she drew away.

"Pen, will you be my wife?"

She put her hand to her forehead with an odd little motion. Her paleness became a pallor.

"You ask me that—you would—"

"Yes, I would. I did fight it. I didn't really know you until to-night. You've been unreadable. Now I feel you are your real self. Not the daredevil who defied me and mocked me. Not the little meek mouse on the hearth. I love the woman you are to-night."

"Am I like her—the best woman in the world?" she whispered.

"Yes," he cried triumphantly. "And you will grow more and more like her—the type of woman I want you to be. Don't you care for me—a little, Pen?"

Again his arm was about her. She turned to meet his eyes, deep-set—intense—burning.

"Kurt—I—"

A little wave of doubt, of contrition, stole over her.

"I don't love you," she said uncomfortably.

"Don't you want to love me, Pen?"

"No!"

She rose impulsively, and there were tears in her eyes, though there was a half wistful smile on her lips, as she passed him swiftly and fled toward the stairway.

He followed.

"You mustn't leave me, this way. Pen—"

For a shining second she leaned against him.

"I must. I can't tell you now. I'll think it over. You surely want me to be honest with you!"

In the upper hall she passed the open door of Hebler's room. There were no inner lights, but the shafts of a moonbeam shone straight upon an article lying on a small table near the door, finding response in glimmering gleams.

She stopped, electrified.

"Oh!"

Fascinated by the sparkle, she lingered for a moment, and then went quickly to her room and straight to the window that looked on the moonlit hills. She stayed there awhile, her hands clenched, thinking intensely and rapidly—of Larry soaring like an eagle, proud and secure in his conquering of the air—of Marta's sudden severance from the habit of a lifetime—of Jo's faith in her—of Kurt wrestling with his conflict between love and conventions. "Does he care, really, as much as he thinks he does," she wondered, "or is it just the lure of—propinquity? How shall I find out? Oh, there is too much on my mind! How careless and how like Hebby to leave his priceless ring about. What would he think if he knew the thief was next door to it?"

She left the window and went to the door.

* * * * *

The ring still sent forth shafts of sparkles.

A figure came stealthily out into the hall, paused near the open door. A hand reached quickly out and closed over the ring.



CHAPTER XII

"Have we a new maid, Kurt?" asked Kingdon at the breakfast table next morning. "I had a glimpse of a pretty little girl talking to Agatha."

"Mrs. Kingdon sent her here to do the sewing and look after the children," explained Kurt.

"And she's got a funny name," said Francis. "Her name is Bobbie Burr."

Hebler's fork fell with a clatter.

"Bobbie Burr!" he exclaimed in amazement.

"Bobbie Burr!" echoed Kingdon.

"Where is she? Let me see her at once. She's the very person I am looking for!"

"I'll go and get her," offered Billy, running from the room.

He returned in a few moments followed by Marta.

"Oh, you aren't Bobbie Burr!" said Hebler, visibly disappointed.