the road, and telephone the hotel to send a horse over for her. Perhaps I'll join you to-night. Perhaps not. I'll see. You go ahead and have your picnic at the half-way hut, as you planned, and hurry about it, too. It looks as if it might snow this afternoon."
As he proceeded to repack his rucksack with luncheon for two he made no effort to conceal his contempt for Miss Miller. It was when he was slicing off a hunk of bacon from the supply that Fairlee Ormsbee had been carrying, that he remarked, "This ought to keep your department-store sport from starvation," and he gave her one of his slow, droll winks.
He found Miss Miller a quarter of a mile down the trail, leaning against a tree, apparently admiring a bleak expanse of mountainside, laid bare by wood-cutters. She had selected a terribly exposed spot for her contemplations. Even through several layers of wool, one of corduroy, and one of canvas Bord Mathewson could feel the sharp biting wind strike home. But as he approached Miss Miller she was smiling.
"Are you all right?" he called.
"I guess so," she replied. It was the first time the little counterfeit had shown any doubt. "But," she stammered as he drew nearer, and he observed now that her voice was anything but
