bloomed the shooting stars; the mimulus, scarlet among the rocks, and the silene, crimson on the slopes.
"There's no dead season here, like your winters back East," she told him, "just a ripe season, and a little season of sleep."
"That's all winter is," he told her; "a little season of sleep."
"Dead cold sleep—dead," she replied. "Here we just rest lightly for a little, and we dream in flowers."
"Why, that is a beautiful thought!" cried Kenneth. "It would make a good idea for a poem!"
She paid no attention to his compliment.
"Do you write poems?" she asked him.
"No, of course not, I couldn't," disclaimed Kenneth, with all the confusion of a healthy boy avoiding even the appearance of shame. "But I like to read good stuff. Did you ever read any of Carlson's?"
"Of course I have, what a silly question!"
"Don't you think he's bully?"
"He's California."
"Why, that's just what he is!" cried Kenneth. "You certainly put things well! You don't know what a relief it is to talk to an intelligent woman after a lot of these silly girls you meet around."
"Is it?" she smiled enigmatically.
They had crossed the mesa and now struck unexpectedly into the Camino Real. It was pastern deep in light dust at this time of the year, so they rode slowly on the brown grass alongside. To Kenneth's surprise they were only a few miles from town: in fact almost opposite the Corona del Monte ranch. They had ridden on the beach around a wide arc of a bow, and were now cutting across the chord.
"Well, good-bye," suddenly announced the girl, as they reached a willow-shaded, little-used cross roads. "I'm going to leave you here."
"Hold on!" cried Kenneth. "When do I see you again?"
But she had clapped heels to her palomino and was off in a cloud of dust followed by the dogs. Kenneth wheeled, with a half intention of fol1owing; but she disappeared on the keen run, and he knew from his late experience on the beach that Pronto
