It was Sunday afternoon and a hazy, golden, late September sun was swimming lazily in the blue arc of sky, flooding the lower gallery of the Circle Bar ranchhouse, but not reaching a secluded nook in which sat Hollis and Nellie Hazelton. Mrs. Norton was somewhere in the house and Norton had gone down to the bunkhouse for a talk with the men–Hollis and Nellie could see him, sitting on a bench in the shade of the eaves, the other men gathered about him.

Below the broad level that stretched away from the ranchhouse sank the big basin, sweeping away to the mountains. Miles into the distance the Circle Bar cattle could be seen–moving dots in the center of a great, green bowl. To the right Razor-Back ridge loomed its bald crest upward with no verdure saving the fringe of shrubbery at its base; to the left stretched a vast plain that met the distant horizon that stretched an interminable distance behind the cottonwood. Except for the moving dots there was a total absence of life and movement in the big basin. It spread in its wide, gradual, downward slope, bathed in the yellow sunshine of the new, mellow season, peacefully slumberous, infinitely beautiful.

Many times had Hollis sat in the gallery watching it, his eyes glistening, his soul stirred to awe. Long since had he ceased regretting the glittering tinsel of the cities of his recollection; they seemed artificial, unreal. When he had first gazed out over the basin he had been oppressed with a sensation of uneasiness. Its vastness had appalled him, its silence had aroused in him that vague disquiet which is akin to fear. But these emotions had passed. He still felt awed–he would always feel it, for it seemed that here he was looking upon a section of the world in its primitive state; that in forming this world the creator had been in his noblest mood–so far did the lofty mountains, the wide, sweeping valleys, the towering buttes, and the mighty canyons dwarf the flat hills and the puny shallows of the land he had known. But he was no longer appalled; disquietude had been superseded by love.

It all seemed to hold some mystery for him–an alluring, soul-stirring mystery. The tawny mountains, immutable guardians of the basin, whose peaks rose somberly in the twilight glow–did they hold it? Or was it hidden in the basin, in the great, green sweep that basked in the eternal sunlight?

Perhaps there was no mystery. Perhaps he felt merely the romance that would inevitably come to one who deeply appreciated the beauty of a land into which he had come so unwillingly? For romance was here.

He turned his head slightly and looked at the girl who sat beside him. She also was looking out over the basin, her eyes filled with a light that thrilled him. He studied her face long, noting the regular features, the slight tan, through which shone the dusky bloom of perfect health; the golden brown hair, with the wind-blown wisps straggling over her temples; he felt the unaccountable, indefinable something that told him of her inborn innocence and purity–qualities that he had worshiped ever since he had been old enough to know the difference between right and wrong.

A deep respect moved him, a reverent smile wreathed his lips. Motherly? Yes, that world-thrilling word aptly described her. And as he continued to look at her he realized that this world held no mystery for him beyond that which was enthroned in the heart of the girl who sat beside him, unconscious of his thoughts.

He turned again toward the basin. He did not want to uncover the mystery–yet. There were still several things to be done before he would feel free to speak the words that he had meditated upon for some weeks. Meanwhile–if the gods were with him–the solving of the mystery would be the more enjoyable.

Two weeks of inaction had followed the primary incident. Several of Ten Spot’s friends were now in his employ; in spite of the drought the Circle Bar had so far experienced a very prosperous season, and, though the addition of the men represented quite an item of expense, he felt that it was much better to employ them than to allow them to be re-engaged by Dunlavey.

He had been able to save considerable money. This he had transferred to a bank in Santa Fe, for he had determined to stay in the West. He had told his mother of this decision and had asked her to come, but she had written that she preferred to remain East for a time–at least until the following spring.

Hollis was satisfied. Affairs were progressing beyond his anticipations. Dunlavey’s influence in the county had received a mighty blow in the defeat of Watkins at the primary; he had received notice of the enactment of several new laws that would appreciably assist him in his fight; he had succeeded in winning many friends because of his attitude on the water question; the increased number of advertisements appearing in the Kicker would soon necessitate the addition of an extra sheet. It all presaged prosperity. Yes, he was satisfied. And yet–

He turned again and looked at the girl. This time he caught her watching him. Evidently she had been watching him for a long time for her gaze was fixed and meditative, as though she had been studying him. She started and blushed when he turned and caught her, looking down in sudden and complete confusion. But she looked up again instantly, meeting his gaze steadily, her lips in a frank smile.

“You have been thinking of this country,” she said.

“You have guessed it,” he returned gravely and gently; “I have been thinking of this country–and its people.” He smiled at her, his eyes shining with a light that caused hers to waver and droop. “But how did you discover that?” he questioned. “I was not aware that I had been speaking my thoughts.”“Do you think it is always necessary to speak?” she answered, looking at him with a quiet smile. “Don’t you think there are times when one’s thoughts find expression in one’s eyes? When we can not conceal them–no matter how hard we try? I know that you were thinking of the country,” she went on earnestly, “because a few moments ago I had been thinking of it too and I know that my emotions were exactly the same as those expressed in your eyes. It is magnificent, isn’t it?” she said in an awed, eager voice. “It is so big, so mighty, so soul-stirring. It allures with its vastness, it dazzles with its beauty; it makes one feel closer to the Creator, even while pressing home a disquieting sense of one’s own insignificance.

“For instance,” she went on, her eyes large and luminous, a new, quiet color coming into her face “there are times when our tasks seem stupendous, when we are filled with an overpowering consciousness of the importance of them; when we feel that we are carrying such a burden that the addition of another would make the load too heavy. Then we look upon God’s work and immediately a still, small voice within us cries: ‘What have ye done in comparison to this?’ And what have we done?” she suddenly demanded.“Nothing,” he returned gravely, awed by this fleeting illuminating glimpse into her soul.

She leaned back into her chair with a smile. “Those were the things I was thinking about. And you, too, were thinking of them,” she added. “Now, don’t deny it!” she warned, “for I saw it in your eyes!”

“No!” he said with a quick smile; “I don’t deny it. But I was thinking of the people also.”

“Oh, the people!” she said with a frown.

“Perhaps I should have said ‘person,’” he modified with a quick glance at her, under which her eyes drooped in swift confusion–as they had drooped on another occasion which he remembered.

“Oh!” she said merely.

“I have been comparing this person to God’s other works,” he said, a light in his eyes which told that the former decision to postpone an attempt to uncover the mystery had been ruthlessly put aside, “and I have come to the conclusion that in spite of the infinite care he took in forming the beautiful world out yonder he did not neglect this person to whom I refer.”

Her eyes met his in a glance of swift comprehension. She drew a slow, deep breath and averted her face, which was now crimson.

“As you have been able to illustrate man’s insignificance in comparison to God’s mighty creations, so has my own inferiority been forced upon me by my attempting to compare myself to the sweet character of the person of whom I speak,” said Hollis, his voice low and earnest. “It has been a question whether–when I speak to her of a thing which has been on my mind for many days–she could not with justice paraphrase the question asked by the still, small voice and say: What have you done to deserve this? And I should have to reply–nothing.” He had moved closer to her, leaning forward to look into her eyes.

She sat very still, her gaze on the basin. “Perhaps this very estimable person holds other views?” she returned, with a flash of mischief in her eyes. She turned suddenly and looked straight at him, meeting his gaze unwaveringly, a demure smile on her face. “I told you that sometimes a person’s thoughts were expressed in their eyes,” she said–and now her lashes flickered–“perhaps you can tell what my thoughts are?”

It was a challenge, a defiance, and an unconditional surrender. Like a flash one of Hollis’s arms went out–she was drawn, vainly protesting, toward him.

“You haven’t answered,” she laughed, in a smothered voice; “you are not certain—”

She did not finish the sentence. Mrs. Norton, coming to the door for a breath of fresh air, halted on the threshold, looked, smiled, and then quietly–very quietly–slipped back into the house.

Away out over the basin a Mexican eagle circled, winging his slow way through the golden sunshine of the afternoon. Miles away the mountain peaks rose somberly, a mysterious, golden halo rising slowly above them. Perhaps there would always be mystery in the mountains, but a certain mystery that had troubled Hollis mightily had been successfully solved. The gods had favored him.