Smiles | Page 4

land, and caught
sight of a small, isolated cabin beyond, so toned by wind and weather
that it seemed almost an integral part of its natural surroundings, than
his own presence was detected, as the sharp and surly barking of an
unseen dog evidenced. Mike made answer to the challenge, and
instantly other, more distant, canine voices joined in the growing
clamor.
As man and dog advanced across the clearing, not one, but half a dozen
gaunt curs, summoned to the spot by a warning which meant the
approach of a stranger, much as their clannish masters might have been
in other years, mysteriously appeared from all sides and rushed forward,
their lips drawn back from threatening teeth, their bristling throats
rumbling ominously.
Donald sharply commanded the likewise bristling Mike to keep to heel,
threw his rifle to hip and backed hastily toward the cabin. He had no
wish to employ his weapon, and as retreat was the other alternative, for
his companion's sake, if not his own, indeed, discretion seemed to be,

by all odds, valor's better part.
A noisy and exciting moment brought him to the cabin's door, still face
to the enemy. Fumbling behind him with his left hand, Donald found
and lifted the latch. The door swung suddenly open under his weight,
Mike scurried between his legs, and the combination resulted in his
downfall, precipitate and sprawling.
Simultaneously came a startled exclamation in a treble voice, the clatter
of a fallen kettle and then a quick cry of pain.
In an instant Donald had scrambled ungracefully to his feet and found
himself face to face with a picture that he was destined never to forget.
Backed by a big stone fireplace, in which the embers were glowing
ruddily, stood a young girl clad in a simple one-piece dress, which left
neck, arms and legs bare. One dusty, but dainty, foot was held between
her hands, while she balanced on the other. A tumbling mass of rich
brown curls, shot with gleaming threads like tiny rays of captive
sunshine, fell, unbound, over her shoulders, and partly veiled a
childlike face, tanned to an Indian brown and now twisted with pain,
but nevertheless so startlingly sweet and appealing that the man gasped
in astonishment.
[Illustration: "ONE DUSTY, BUT DAINTY, FOOT WAS HELD
BETWEEN HER HANDS"]
As it is with many who wear bluntness like a cloak, Donald possessed a
deep-seated appreciation of the beautiful, without being capable of
expressing it. But now he vaguely realized that here, where he would
last have looked for it, he had blundered upon a child whom Mother
Nature had designed lovingly and with painstaking care, perhaps in
order to satisfy herself that, in the bustle of creation which nowadays
left her little time for attention to fine detail, her hands had not wholly
lost the cunning which was theirs when the world was young and
women were few and fair.
Her face had the qualities of a sweet wild-flower, delicate of form yet

hardy enough to stand up under the stress of a storm. A critic might
have declared the sensitive mouth a shade too broad for the tapering
lines which formed the firmly rounded chin; he might have said that the
upper lip, against which its companion was now tightly pressed to
check its trembling, was too short for classic beauty; but he would
hardly have been able to find a flaw in the molding of the straight,
slender nose or the broad forehead, or the cheeks which curved as
symmetrically as the petals of a damask rose, or--if he were
human--with the faint shadows at the corners of the lips which were not
dimples, but fascinatingly suggested them. But, above all, it was the
child's eyes, heavy with a sudden rush of unshed tears that merely
added to their appealing charm, which left the strongest impression on
the man. They were remarkable eyes, long of lash and of a deep blue
with limpid purple shadows and golden highlights.
Her form, untrammelled by confining clothing and bending naturally,
was slender and lithesome, but full of curves which told that the bud of
childhood was just beginning to open into the blossom of early
maturity--about fifteen or sixteen years old, Donald guessed her to be.
At her feet lay an overturned kettle the contents from which, a simple
stew, was sending up a cloud of steam from the rough floor, and
explained the reason for the misty eyes and tenderly nursed ankle.
The whole picture was graven on his mind in a single glance; but, the
next instant the sunniest, most appealing of smiles broke through the
girl's pain-drawn tears.
"Yo' ... yo' looked so funny a-fallin' over thet thar dawg, an' a-rollin' on
the floor," her words bubbled forth.
"I'm glad that you