The Gold Trail | Page 7

in harmony with her surroundings. The simple,
close-fitting gray dress which, though he did not know this, had cost a
good many dollars, displayed a pretty and not over-slender figure, and
fitted in with the neutral tinting of the towering fir trunks and the sunlit
boulders, while the plain white hat with bent-down brim formed an
appropriate setting for the delicately-colored face beneath it. Still,
Weston scarcely noticed any particular points in Miss Stirling's
appearance just then, for he was subconsciously impressed by her
personality as a whole. There was something in her dress and manner
that he would have described vaguely as style, though it was a style he
had not often come across in the west, where he had for the most part
lived in the bush. She was evidently a little younger than himself, but
she had the quiet air of one accustomed to command, which, as a matter
of fact, was the case.
Then he wondered with a slight uneasiness whether she had heard all
that he said when he fell down. He fancied that she had, for there was
the faintest trace of amusement in her eyes. They met his own steadily,

though he was not sure whether they were gray or blue, or a very light
brown. Indeed, he was never quite sure of this, for they changed
curiously with the light.
Then she came toward him and looked at the valise.
"It was locked when I gave it to you," she said, with a trace of severity.
"Well," answered Weston, "it doesn't seem to be locked now. I think I
remember noticing that you left the key in it; but it's gone. It must have
fallen out. I'll look for it."
He looked for some time, and, failing to find it, walked back to the girl.
"I'm afraid it's in the river," he said. "Still, you see, the bag is open."
"That," replied Miss Stirling, "is unfortunately evident. I want it shut."
Weston glanced at the protruding garments with which she seemed to
be busy.
"I'm very sorry," he said. "I dare say I could squeeze these things back
into it."
He was going to do so when Miss Stirling took the bag away from him.
"No," she said a trifle quickly, "I don't think you could."
Then it occurred to Weston that his offer had, perhaps, not been
altogether tactful, and he was sensible of a certain confusion, at which
he was slightly astonished. He did not remember having been readily
subject to fits of embarrassment when in England, though there he had
never served as porter to people of his own walk in life. Turning away,
he collected a waterproof carry-all, a big rubber ground sheet, another
parasol, a sketching stool, and a collapsible easel, which also appeared
to be damaged. Then as he knelt down and roped them and the valise
together he looked at the girl.
"I'm afraid Miss Kinnaird will be a little angry, for I think that easel

thing won't open out," he said. "I'm awfully sorry."
Now "awfully sorry" is not a western colloquialism, and the girl looked
at him attentively. She liked his voice, and she rather liked his face,
which, since he had not been called the Kid for nothing, was ingenuous.
She laughed a little. Then she remembered something she had noticed.
"Well," she observed, "I suppose you couldn't help it. That load was too
heavy; and aren't you a little lame?"
"Not always," said Weston. "I cut my foot a little while ago. If it hadn't
been for that I shouldn't have fallen down and broken Miss Kinnaird's
things."
"And mine!"
"And yours," admitted Weston. "As I said, I'm particularly sorry. Still,
if you will let me have the bag afterward I can, perhaps, mend the lock.
You see, I assisted a general jobbing mechanic."
Ida Stirling flashed a quick glance at him. He had certainly a pleasant
voice, and his manner was whimsically deferential.
"Why didn't you stay with him?" she asked. "Mending plows and
wagons must have been easier than track-grading."
Weston's eyes twinkled.
"He said I made him tired; and the fact is I mended a clock. That is, I
tried--it was rather a good one when I got hold of it."
The girl laughed, and the laugh set them on good terms with each other.
Then she said:
"That load is far too heavy for you to climb over these boulders with
when you have an injured foot. You can give me the valise, at least."
"No," said Weston, resolutely, "this is a good deal easier than shoveling
gravel, as well as pleasanter; and the foot really doesn't trouble me very

much. Besides, if I hadn't cut it, Cassidy wouldn't have sent me here."
He was, however, mistaken in supposing that