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 smooth as her own. It is characteristic of a cowboy to have a face brown as an Indian, and hands girlishly white and soft.

"I haven't had a glimpse of you for a week—not since I met you down by the river. Where have you been?" he whispered.

"Here. Rex went lame, and Dick wouldn't let me ride any other horse, since that day Goldie bolted—and so the hills have called in vain. I've stayed at home and made quantities of Duchesse lace—I almost finished a love of a center piece—and mama thinks I have reformed. But Rex is better, and to-morrow I'm going somewhere."

"Better help me hunt some horses that have been running down Lost Cañon way. I'm going to look for them to-morrow," Keith suggested, as calmly as was compatible with his eagerness and his method of speech. I doubt if any man can whisper things to a girl he loves, and do it calmly. I know Keith's heart was pounding.

"I shall probably ride in the opposite direction," Beatrice told him wickedly. She wondered if he thought she would run at his beck.

"I never saw you in this dress before," Keith murmured, his eyes caressing. 106