“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.”