She nodded in answer, smiling at him.
"They're starving her over there," he explained to Livingston, who looked at them in some wonderment. "They don't feed her anything but boiled eggs. Tell him why you don't eat anything but eggs, Hope, boiled,—hard and soft,—in their own shells. Maybe you can get them to bake you a potato or two in their own jackets!"
"What an idea! I never thought of that," she exclaimed. "You're a genius, Syd. But go home or I shall famish! I'll meet Dave and come right over there. I think the chickens will fly that way to-night, anyway, don't you?"
"Of course they will," replied her cousin, "they fly right over the top of my tent every evening!" Then he started away, but turned about quickly as though he had forgotten something, and asked Livingston if he would not come over to camp for supper, too.
Livingston looked up into the dark eyes of the girl beside him, then accepted.
"Good!" said Sydney. "Come along with Hope."
"Be sure and see that there's enough cooked," called the girl as he rode away.
"Don't worry about that, pard," he answered, then, lifting his hat, waved it high above his head as he disappeared around the reef of rocks.
Hope looked after him and was still smiling when she turned to Livingston. It may have been something in his face that caused her own to settle instantly into its natural quiet.
"I'd like to go up there for a moment," she said, then dismounted, and leaving her horse walked quickly up the grassy hill until she stood beside the grave. Some sod had been roughly placed upon the dirt, and scattered over that was a handful of freshly picked wild flowers.