Miss Deringham stooped over the box that he might not see her face. It
was merely the skirt of an evening dress which had displayed itself,
but she had guessed what the man was thinking, and remembering his
excuse was not displeased with him. When the box was in the wagon she
took out a dollar, and then for no special reason put it back again.
The man was a bush teamster, but she did not feel equal to offering him
a piece of silver. She swung herself up into the wagon with her foot
in his hand, and wondered whether it could be by intent that he stood
bare-headed while she did it. Then her father climbed in, and the man
at the station laughed as he said, "What's the odds, Harry, you don't
spill the whole freight on the dip to the ford?"

The teamster, who made no answer, shook the reins, and they went
lurching over a horrible trail down the valley, while Miss Deringham
delightedly breathed in the scent of the cedars and felt the lash of
snow-chilled wind bring the blood to her face. She, however, wished
that the bundle of straw which served as seat would not move about so
much, and fancied her father would have been more comfortable had he
not been menaced by a jolting piece of machinery. Their progress was
rudely interrupted presently, for the teamster standing upright reined
the horses in on their haunches, and the girl saw a line of loaded
ponies straggling up the winding trail. One of the men who plodded
behind them glanced at the driver of the wagon with an ironical grin,
and Miss Deringham saw a warmer colour creep into the sun-darkened
cheek. This was, she fancied, a man with a temper.

"Now," he said, and then stopped suddenly. The other man's grin became
more pronounced. "You can start in," he said. "We're not bashful."

The teamster said nothing, but a faint twinkle replaced the anger in