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“Oh!” she thought. “The kind of clothes I love.”

She hastened to dress partially, then slipped on a little negligee and began to do her hair.

“I wish it would sometimes go twice in the same place,” she thought ruefully. “I never can fix it as I like. It’s the only thing that ever got the better of me except Kind Kurt. Well!” with an impatient shake of her rebellious locks, “go crop-cut, if you insist. I can’t help it.”

Mrs. Kingdon smiled when the little girlish figure opened the door in response to her knock.

“I felt sure that that outfit, which was left here by my fifteen-year-old niece when she last visited us, would fit you, though Kurt insists that you are twenty. You had a nice sleep, didn’t you?”

“I think I never really slept before. Such a bed, and such heavenly quiet! So different from street-car racket.”

“My husband and the boys have been away all day, or there wouldn’t have been such quiet. Dinner is ready. Kurt didn’t tell me your name.”

“Penelope Lamont. My first name is always shortened to Pen or Penny.”

Down stairs in the long, low-ceiling library she was introduced to Mr. Kingdon, a man of winning personality, a philosopher and a humorist. Ranged beside him were three appalling critics: two boys of nine and seven years respectively, and a little girl of five. They stared at her solemnly and surveyingly while she was presented to their father.

“Can you skin a weasel?” asked Francis, the oldest lad, when Pen turned to him.

“Mother said you were a young lady,” said Billy. “You’re just a little girl like Doris was.”

“And you’ve got on her clothes,” declared Betty sagely.

“Now you surely should feel at home,” declared Mrs. Kingdon.

“Margaret,” commented her husband whimsically, “our children seem to be quite insistent on recognition and rather inclined to be personal in their remarks, don’t you think?”

“We so seldom have visitors up here, you know,” defended the mother, smiling at Pen the while. “We will go into the dining room now.”

Throughout the meal Pen was subtly conscious of an undercurrent of a most willing welcome to the hospitality of the ranch. Her surmise that the vacant place at the table was reserved for the foreman was verified by Betty who asked with a pout:

“Why don’t we wait for Uncle Kurt?”

“He dined an hour ago and rode away,” explained Mrs. Kingdon. “He will be back before your bedtime.”

Every lull in the conversation was eagerly and instantly utilized by one or more of the children, who found Pen most satisfactorily responsive to their advances.

“You’ve had your innings, Francis,” the father finally declared. “That will be the last from you.”

“There’s one thing more I want to know,” he pleaded. “Miss Lamont, do colored people ever have—what was it you said you were afraid Miss Lamont had, mother?”

“Oh, Francis!” exclaimed his mother. “I said,” looking at Pen, “that I feared you were anemic, and then I had to describe the word minutely.”

“Are they ever that, Miss Lamont?” insisted the boy.

“I never thought of it before,” answered Pen after a moment’s reflection, “but I don’t see why they couldn’t be so, same as white people.”

“Then how could they tell they had it. They wouldn’t look white, would they?”

“Suppose,” interceded Kingdon, “we try to find a less colorful topic. I move we adjourn to the library for coffee.”

“We stay up an hour after dinner,” said Billy, when they were gathered about the welcome open fire, “but when we have company, it’s an hour and a half.”

“I should think that rule would be reversed,” replied Kingdon humorously.

“Then, aren’t you glad I’m here?” Pen asked Billy.

“Sure!” came in hearty assurance. “You can stay up a long time, can’t you, because you slept all day?”

“Play with us,” besought Betty.

“Yes; play rough,” demanded Billy.

Mrs. Kingdon interposed. “She’s too tired to do that,” she admonished the children.

Betty came forward with a box of paper and a pair of scissors.

“You can cut me some paper dolls. That won’t tire you.”

“I don’t want dolls!” scoffed Francis.

Pen was already using the articles Betty had furnished.

“Not if we call them circus ladies and I cut horses for them to ride on?” she asked him.

“Can you do that?” he inquired unbelievingly.

“Certainly. Dashing horses that will stand up,” she boasted, and in another moment a perfectly correct horse was laid before the delighted boys.

A few more rapid snips and a short-skirted lady was handed to Betty.

“Now, make a clown, a lion, a tiger, an elephant,” came in quick, short orders which were readily filled.

“My dear young lady,” exclaimed Kingdon. “You are really talented. It is so seldom an artist can do anything but draw.”

“I can’t draw. I am just a cutter,” she corrected. “I can’t do anything with a pencil.”

They were all so absorbed in the paper products that Kurt’s entrance passed unnoted.

“Betty,” he said imploringly, after waiting a moment without recognition, “you can’t guess what’s in my pocket?”

Pen looked up unbelievingly. The caressing, winning note had utterly disguised his voice. As he handed the delighted Betty a satisfactorily shaped parcel, his glance rested upon his prisoner, bringing a quick gleam of surprise to his eyes.

“I am taking out my first papers, you see,” she announced, pointing to the miniature menagerie.

“Where did you learn to do that?” he asked.

“A man showed me,” she said noncommittally.

“What else can you cut?” demanded Francis.

“I can cut an airship.”

“Cut me one.”

“To-morrow,” said Mrs. Kingdon. “The time limit is up.”

“Did you ever go up in an airship?” asked Billy eagerly.

“No; but I know a man who flies,” she boasted.

“Come upstairs and tell us about him,” demanded Billy.

As his mother cordially seconded the invitation, Pen accompanied them to the nursery. When the last “good nights” had been said to the children, Mrs. Kingdon led the way to her room.

“The moon shouldn’t seem so far away,” declared Pen, looking out of the broad window. “We are up so high.”

“I haven’t yet ceased to wonder at these hills,” rejoined Mrs. Kingdon. “We bought this ranch merely for a vacation place, but three-fourths of our time is spent up here, as we have become so attached to it. Mr. Kingdon is an artist, so he never tires of watching the hills and the sky. Sometimes we feel selfish with so much happiness—when there isn’t enough to go around.”

“I know you take but a small percentage of what you give. Shall I tell my story now?”

“I think I know it—or some of it, at least,” replied Mrs. Kingdon, looking at her intently.

Pen looked up with a startled gesture.

“You do! How—”

“When I was in your room just before dinner, it came to me where I had seen you before. It was about a year ago—in San Francisco—in a police station. I made inquiries; was interested in you and tried to see you, but we were suddenly called home. I should like to hear more about your life and what brought you to these hills.”

“I wish no one else need know it,” she said entreatingly, when she had told her story in detail.

“Kurt is surely entitled to know it all,” replied Mrs. Kingdon.

“I suppose he is; though I wish he didn’t know as much as he already does. It isn’t necessary to tell him to-night, is it? I am still tired in spite of my long rest.”

“To-morrow will do. If you like, I will tell him, and I wish you and he would leave the entire matter—about Jo and all—in my hands.”

“Most gladly,” assented Pen. “But where is Jo?”

“He is on a neighboring ranch—temporarily, only.”

“There is something else I should like to know. Why is Kurt so different from most men? Doesn’t he ever look pleasant, or was his gloom all on my account?”

“His life hasn’t been exactly conducive to jollity. He was born in New England and brought up on pie and Presbyterianism by a spinstered aunt who didn’t understand boys. He ran away and came to the West. He has been cattle-herder, cowboy and everything else typical of the hill country. We came here, tenderfooted, and were most fortunate in finding a foreman like Kurt Walters. He has a wonderful way of handling men. He is of good habits, forceful, keen; very gentle to old people and most adorable with children. We make him one of our household. There is the fortunate flaw that keeps him from being super-excellent; he is not merciful to wrongdoers and, as you say, he is too serious—almost moody. That is accounted for by the long night vigils of the cattlemen. They get a habit of inhibition that they never lose. I think the men find him very good company at times. There is one splendid thing about him. In spite of his rough life and the many years in which he has had opportunity to meet only the—misguided kind of women, he has never lost faith in his ideals of womanhood.”

“I certainly rubbed him the wrong way,” said Pen comprehendingly. “He looked upon me as if there were no place on his map for my kind, and yet he struggled hard to be good to me when I was suffering from cold and hunger. I never met his sort of a man before. The men I have been thrown with think goodness stupid. No matter what crime a girl commits, providing she is attractive in any way, they applaud and call her a ‘little devil.’”

“He talked of you a great deal to-day, and about your chances for reformation.”

Pen smiled enigmatically.

“He said he would have felt more sympathy for me if I had not been educated and knew the enormity of my sins. If he knew more of the world, he would know that the intelligent criminal has the least chance to reform. When he took me so unexpectedly from Bender, I wanted to see what he was going to do with me. When I found he was bringing me out here, I could have easily given him the slip and escaped, but I was curious to see the ‘best woman in the world.’ I never had faith in a man’s estimate of a woman, but as soon as I saw you, I knew he was right. May I stay? Will you really let me?”

“I quite insist upon your staying. We will go downstairs for a little while now.”

Below, Mrs. Kingdon lingered to give some directions to a servant and Pen went on to the library.

Kurt was standing there alone. She stood small and straight before her warden, looking squarely into his eyes.

“You needn’t,” she said, “put any locks on valuables here—not on my account. The crookedest crook in the world wouldn’t steal from her.”

“I am glad you recognize a true woman,” he said earnestly.

“Thank you for bringing me here. I feel it’s the turning point in my life.”

“Then,” he said earnestly, “I feel I have done something worth while. You shall not leave here until—you see I am speaking plainly—you have overcome all desire to steal.”

“Not a severe penalty, O Sheriff Man!” she thought as she replied meekly: “To-night I feel as if I could never do anything wrong; but you know the strongest of us have our lapses.”

“I know that too well,” he said gravely, “but—you’ll try?”

“I’ll try. Good-night, Mr. Walters.”

In the doorway she paused and looked back. He was gazing meditatively into the flames of the open fire. She shook a little defiant fist at him and made a childish grimace, both of which actions were witnessed by Kingdon as he entered the room.

“Do you know,” he confided later to his wife, with a chuckle of reminiscence, “as fine a fellow as Kurt is, I sometimes feel like shaking a fist at him myself.”

* * *

* * *

CHAPTER IV

As on the day previous, Pen awoke at an early hour. She lay quiet for a moment, sensing to the full the deliciousness of being cosily submerged in soft, warm coverings that protected her from the crisp, keen hill-winds that were sweeping into her room.

“The air smells as if it came right off the snow,” she thought, as she drew on some fur-bound slippers and wrapped herself in a Navajo blanket that was on the footrail of her bed. Then she crossed the room, climbed up on the big seat under the casement window and looked out.

It was not the thrilling beauty of the covey of pink-lined dawn-clouds that made her eyes grow round, big and bright; that brought a faint flush to her cheeks; a quick intake of breath. It was something much more mundane that held her attention—the superb spectacle of Kurt Walters, mounted. The lean, brown horseman sat on his saddle as easily as though it were a cushion in a rocking chair. He was talking to three or four cattlemen and apparently paying no attention to his cavorting steed except that occasionally and casually his firm hands brought the plunging animal to earth.

“He’s to the saddle born,” thought the girl admiringly. “He ought to stay on a horse. If I’d seen him yesterday on horseback, he wouldn’t have had to take me. I’d have flown to him.”

He gave a last command to one of the men, as he turned to ride away.

“All right, boss,” was the reply, as the men dispersed to their various stations of duty.

Suddenly and psychologically the eyes of the rider were lifted to the casement window. Pen waved her hand airily toward him, the movement loosening the gayly striped blanket which fell from her shoulders. The Indian-brown of his face reddened darkly; a gleam came into his steel-gray eyes. He made a military motion toward his hat brim with his whip and then rode swiftly away, without the backward and upward look which she was expecting.

“The boss is a bashful boss,” she thought, with a lazy little pout, as she shook off the blanket, flung her slippers free and went back to bed.

“He’s good to look at, but oh, you comfortable cot!”

When next she awoke, it was near the breakfast hour.

“I’m glad I’m not the last one down,” she said, as she came into the dining-room and noticed Kurt’s vacant chair.

“Oh, but you are!” Betty hastened to say. “Uncle Kurt’s gone away for a whole week, hasn’t he, father?”

“When did he go, Louis?” asked Mrs. Kingdon in surprise.

“A message came for him late last night,” explained her husband. “The sheriff has unexpectedly returned, and Kurt has to be in town for a week to settle up all the red tape routine for his release; and besides, the trial of So Long Sam has been called, and he’ll have to attend.”

Pen had a sense as of something lifted.

“A reprieve for a week, and I can have a beautiful time with nobody nigh to hinder,” she thought. “I had a narrow escape from a real sheriff. Luck is with me, and no mistake!”

“You will feel lost without Kurt at the helm, won’t you, Louis?” asked Mrs. Kingdon. “And Jo away, too.”

“Westcott returned Jo this morning. Simpson has delayed his trip to Canada for a few days.”

“That is good news. Of course Jo hasn’t Kurt’s efficiency, but he gets on well with the men.”

“They say,” remarked Francis sagely, “that Jo is always ‘right there.’”

“So is Uncle Kurt!” exclaimed Betty indignantly.

“You don’t get me, Betty,” said her brother loftily, “but it’s no use explaining to a girl.”

Pen had been a most attentive and eager listener to this conversation.