Some one, a girl in blue, came tripping down. Ben saw her trim feet halt. Then he looked up into a face that was an older, sweeter image of the one cherished in his heart. Ina Blaine, tall, slim, stood gazing at him with the velvety dark eyes that had been her greatest charm.

After the shock of recognition whirling thoughts and feelings crowded Ben’s mind.

“Ben Ide! Don’t you know me?” she asked. The gladness, the reproach in look and voice, upheld him from utter confusion. He became aware of people in front of the store, of those in the buckboard. Before them he must not be awkward; and that, with the spur of her undoubted intention to meet him as an old friend, inspired him to cool, easy dignity.

“It’s Ina,” he said, meeting her outstretched hand.

“Oh, Ben—how you’ve grown!” she exclaimed, running an appraising glance from his boots to his bare bead. “Why, you’re a man! … Older, Ben, and—” She studied his face with dark eyes growing troubled. “But I knew you. Are you well, Ben, and—and all right?”

“I reckon I was both until about a minute ago,” he replied.

“Same old Ben,” she said, gaily, yet she blushed.

With that, restraint seemed to seize upon them both. Ben tried to break it. “You look wonderful, Ina. I hope your home–coming made you happy.”

“Ben, it did, and then it didn’t,” she rejoined. “I’ve so much to tell you. And we can’t talk here. When can you see me?”

“That’s for you to say, Ina,” he answered, his eyes on hers.

She looked away, hesitated, and then as if with a happy thought turned to him: “I’m to meet your sister to–night at eight o’clock, in the lane between the house and the road. Won’t you come?”

“Ina, I’m on my way to see Hettie and mother. I’m afraid you’d risk a good deal, meeting me.”

“Risk? In what way, Ben?”

“People would gossip if they saw you with me. Then your father—”

“I’ll welcome the risk, Ben. Say you’ll come with Hettie to meet me.”

“If you really—wish it—yes—I’ll—” he replied, thickly, halting over the last words.

“Thank you. Good–by till eight,” said Ina, and turned away.

Ben strode up the steps, passing men whose faces blurred, on into the store where with difficulty he remembered what it was he wanted to purchase. His mind was in a whirl.

“That was young McAdam in the Blaine buckboard,” announced Ketcham, confidentially, as he waited for Ben to make known his wants.

“Didn’t see him. McAdam? Who’s he?” returned Ben.

“Father’s a big merchant in Klamath. This boy Sewell is a high–stepper. He’s runnin’ after Ina pretty keen, an’ folks say Hart Blaine would like him as son–in–law.”

Ben moved away as quickly as possible from a radius of such gossip. He scouted it with strange savage intensity, but that did not assuage the hurt. Then he recalled what Nevada had said about this fellow McAdam.