About eleven o’clock Mr. Wainwright appeared alone.
“Where’s Connie?” asked Donald.
“As you are aware, Mr. McLean, Connie is very shy. I could not induce her to accompany me.”
“That will never do,” said Donald quickly. “I am going after her.”
“I am afraid that your trip will avail you nothing,” smiled Wainwright in his absent-minded way.
Donald borrowed a cayuse and set off up the trail. He hitched the horse at the edge of the clearing and proceeded on foot down the path, his shoes making no sound on the soft dark earth. As he turned a clump of alders and came in view of the cabin he stopped short, arrested by a sight that evidently elicited his amused interest.
Connie stood outside the door before a small mirror hung on the rough log walls of the house. She was attempting to place her heavy hair in a knob at the top of her head. A page cut from a magazine was tacked to a log near the mirror. She studied the photograph carefully, then returned to the attack with renewed vigour. But she could not get it to suit her. She tried and tried, but the heavy shining coils would elude her slender fingers and fall in a golden cascade over her slight shoulders. Her efforts to reach a satisfactory result brought her to the verge of tears. She stamped her little foot impetuously. At last she got it arranged in a fair semblance to that of the envied actress. The effect was so startling that Donald fairly gasped. The child of the moment before was transformed, as if by a fairy’s wand, to a woman of wondrous grace and beauty.
Connie perked her head saucily, then half smiled to show her small milk-white teeth; apparently she was pleased with the reflection she saw in the glass. From the clothes-line she took a flour sack that had been split open and washed to be used for drying dishes. Draping this from her waist-line, she pinned it securely. Assuming a haughty pose, she walked past the mirror with a sinuous, undulating movement. The little artist was so perfect in her mimicry that Donald’s lips involuntarily formed the word “Janet.” Twice she passed before the tiny mirror with a regal step, her head turning with its characteristic bird-like motion to catch the reflection.
Gradually the queenly pose slipped from her. She stopped abruptly, throwing out her arms with a forlorn gesture. Her golden head fell forward. Two big tears welled from her blue eyes and ran down the small freckled nose. Her small hands plucked convulsively at her faded blue overalls. A sob like a stab [of] pain shook her slender body. One arm came up slowly to cover her tear-wet face as she threw herself face forward on the grass. Her slender shoulders were shaking with such an agony of weeping that Donald’s throat felt constricted and his eyes grew suddenly dim.
Her spotted cayuse, grazing nearby, raised his head at the sound of Connie’s hysterical sobbing and moved to the small figure of his mistress. With ears bent forward and a look of bewilderment in his soft eyes, he nuzzled her neck with his velvety nose. The sobbing continued, but her brown hand came up to pat his head lovingly.