but nobody's been able to find it. I saw the sheriff before I left and
_he_ thinks it's up in the hills among the chaparral."

"Is the messenger dead?" asked Lorry.

"Oh, no--he's getting on all right. They don't shoot to kill, just put
him out of business for the time being."

"That's merciful," Aunt Ellen announced in a sleepy voice.

Chrystie, finding no more delicious shudders in the subject, twirled
round on the stool and began softly picking out notes on the piano. For a
space Mark and Lorry talked--it was about the ranch near the
tules--rather dull as it came to Chrystie through her picking. The young
man kept looking at Lorry's face, then dropping his glance to the floor,
abashed before the gentle attention of her eyes, fearful his own might
say too much. He thought it was just her sweetness that made her ask
about his people, but everything about Mark Burrage interested her. Had
he guessed it he would have been as much surprised as she had she known
that he thought her beautiful.

Presently Chrystie's notes took form and became a tinkling tune. She
tried it over once then whirled round on the stool.

"There--I've got it! Listen. Isn't it just like it, Lorry?"

Lorry immediately ceased talking and listened while the tune ran a
halting course through several bars.

"Like what?" she said. "I don't know what it's meant to be."