“Oh, I hope so!” she cried.

“Here’s Nick—­Mr. Hilliard,” Harp announced, nodding his gray head in the direction of the oleander path, to which Carmen’s back was turned as she stood.

She wheeled quickly, and saw a tall young man coming toward her, with long strides.  Instantly, she forgot Simeon Harp, and did not even see him as he hobbled away, pulling on to his head the moth-eaten cap of squirrel fur which he always wore, summer and winter, as if for a sign of his trade.

II

NICK

Nick Hilliard snatched off his sombrero as he came swinging along the oleander path.  He was tall, fully six feet in height, and looked taller than he was, being lean and hard, with long straight legs which could carry him very fast over great stretches of country.  Also he had a way of holding his head high, a way which a man gets if he is in the habit of gazing toward far horizons.  He had a well-cut nose, a good chin, and a mouth that meant strength of purpose, though some of his friends laughed at him for a “womanish” curve of the upper lip.  Luckily Nick did not mind being laughed at by his friends.  His face was almost as brown as his hair, for the sun had darkened the one and bleached the other; but the hair was nice hair, with a glow of auburn in it, which contrasted not uninterestingly with his black, straight brows.  It was, however, the brilliance of the brook-brown eyes which made Nick a handsome man, and not merely a “good-looking fellow.”  It was because of his eyes that women turned in the street for another glance when he went into Bakersfield or Fresno; but Nick never knew that they turned.  He liked pretty girls, and enjoyed their society, but was too busy to seek it, and had had little of it in his life.  It did not occur to him that he had qualities to attract women.  Indeed, he wasted few thoughts upon himself as an individual; not enough, perhaps; for he gave his whole attention to his work.  Work was what he liked best, even without the ultimate success it brought, but lately he had begun to long for a change.  He had a strong wish to go East, and a reason for the wish.

Carmen held out both hands, and enjoyed seeing how white they looked in Nick’s sunburned, slightly freckled ones.  He shook hers, frankly, warmly, and apologized for his “rig,” which was certainly far from conventional.  “I’m ashamed of myself for blowin’ in on you this way,” he said, “especially as you’re so mighty fine.  I hope you’ll excuse me, for you know I pull out to-night, and Jim Beach is bringin’ the buggy along here for me, with my grip in it.  If I’d piked back home afterward, my visit with you’d have been a cut game.”

“Ah, I’m glad you arranged not to go back,” said Carmen.  “I want you to stay with me as long as you can.  I like you in those clothes.”  She smiled at him as if she would like him in anything; but Nick was thinking about Jim Beach, wondering if the boy would have trouble with the flea-bitten gray, which he himself had newly broken to harness.