"But that wasn't really what I started to tell about," she went on. "As I was walking along I came to a—well, you might say a whole crowd of them. There was quite a growth like a patch of ferns. I had n't got to them yet, or even taken particular notice of them,—I must have been ten or twelve feet away,—when they all began to close up. I stopped perfectly still; and pretty soon the green leaves were gone and the place was all changed. Now, how do you suppose those plants ever knew I was coming? I would give anything to know how such things can be."
"How much would you give?" inquired Steve.
For a moment, the spirit of this question hung in the balance. He felt the spell of her inquiring eyes as her hand dropped idly on Shep's back.
"Why—do you know?" she asked doubtfully.
"I think I do," he answered. "You see, that kind of plants have very long roots; they run away out. You stepped on their toes."
"Well, I declare," said Janet, enthusiastic again. "And what a way of saying it."
"It looks simple enough, does n't it?" he remarked.
"And I never thought of it. Why, it was enough to make a person superstitious. Isn't nature wonderful!"
As she took up the coffee, too long neglected, Steve got an imaginary taste of it, and finding it neither hot nor cold, he arose and took her cup. Having refilled it and offered her more of the beans, which to his surprise and gratification she accepted, he made another trip to the corral. In a little while he returned and promptly took his place.
"You were saying this morning," he began, "that you were going to the county-seat. Were you sure that you could find your way all alone?"