She saw him—symmetrical, well-favored, concerned, and wistful—and decided that he was a person to be instantly approved and highly appreciated. With a little cry of dismay as though she had been indifferent to one to whom she was under obligations of gratitude, she came impulsively down to him.
"I am so grateful to you—so grateful!" she cried, and took his hand and for a moment held it warmly.
It was the unstudied, artless expression of a distressed and simple heart, utterly devoid of self-consciousness, and as such beautiful and appealing. But the effect produced was beyond the cause. George Judson stood swaying—for he had recognized her. This was the Goat Girl—this was his velvet queen. She had grown into this half-wild, half-tamed, exquisite, frightened, wonderful thing that he wanted upon the instant to take into his arms and soothe and love.
He could have dropped upon the floor and offered up a prayer of thanksgiving. His hand burned where she had touched it. The electric thrill of that personal contact was shooting through him. Some delicate perfume that came close to him with her enveloped him and made him giddy.
"Just what happened, Mr. Judson?" the girl asked.
"He was driving with me. A milk wagon ran
