"If Indians show up, you'll all come to the Fort. And I'd like that."
"No. Pa wouldn't let us. He'd die first."
"And so maybe I shan't see you again—unless you come here some day. Do you think that you can?" He bent to see her face. The bonnet framed it quaintly.
"It's—it's a nice place," she asserted.
He held out his hand to her. "I shall come," he said gently. "But now I've got to go."
She gave him her hand. He got to his feet still holding it, and helped her to rise.
"Good-by," she said bashfully, drawing away.
He freed her hand. "You don't know how glad I am that we've met," he said, "you don't know. It's been pretty lonesome for me since I came out. And you are a taste of—of the old life. You're like one of those prairie-flowers that have escaped from the gardens back home. You sweeten the Western air, Miss Marylyn."
She hung the cow-horn to her wrist and turned away. Overhead the heart-shaped leaves were trembling to the rush of the river. Her heart trembled with them, and her voice. "We ain't Eastern," she said, wistful again. "I was born down yonder in the mesquite, I——" She paused, glancing back at him.
He stood as she had seen him first. His face was flushed, his uncovered hair was rumpled. In one hand he held his rifle, in the other his tasselled hat. And his eyes were eager, admiring. "No, you're not Eastern," he said; "you were born down in the mesquite. But remember this, Miss Marylyn—it's the deepest woods that grow the sweetest violets."