Miss Spencer's eyes evinced a growing interest.
"Was he real nice-looking?" she asked.
Naida's voice faltered. "Ye--es," she said. "I thought so. He--he
looked like he was a man."
"How old are you, Naida?"
"Nearly eighteen."
Miss Spencer leaned impulsively forward, and clasped the other's hands,
her whole soul responding to this suggestion of a possible romance, a
vision of blighted hearts. "Why, it is perfectly delightful," she
exclaimed. "I had no idea it was so serious, and really I don't in the
least blame you. You love him, don't you, Naida?"
The girl flashed a shy look into the beaming, inquisitive face. "I
don't know," she confessed, soberly. "I have not even seen him for
such a long time; but--but, I guess, he is more to me than any one
else--"
"Not seen him? Do you mean to say Mr. Hampton is not here in Glencaid?
Why, I am so sorry; I was hoping to meet him."
"He went away the same night I came here to live."
"And you never even hear from him?"
Naida hesitated, but the frankly displayed interest of the other won
her complete girlish confidence. "Not directly, but Mr. Herndon
receives money from him for me. He does n't let your aunt know
anything about it, because she got angry and refused to accept any pay
from him. He is somewhere over yonder in the Black Range."
Miss Spencer shook back her hair with a merry laugh, and clasped her
hands. "Why, it is just the most delightful situation I ever heard
about. He is just certain to come back after you, Naida. I wouldn't
miss being here for anything."
They were still sitting there, when the notes of a softly touched
guitar stole in through the open window. Both glanced about in
surprise, but Miss Spencer was first to recover speech.
"A serenade! Did you ever!" she whispered. "Do you suppose it can be
he?" She extinguished the lamp and knelt upon the floor, peering
eagerly forth into the brilliant moonlight. "Why, Naida, what do you
think? It's Mr. Moffat. How beautifully he plays!"
Naida, her face pressed against the other window, gave vent to a single
note of half-suppressed laughter. "There 's going to be something
happening," she exclaimed. "Oh, Miss Spencer, come here quick--some
one is going to turn on the hydraulic."
Miss Spencer knelt beside her. Moffat was still plainly visible, his
pale face upturned in the moonlight, his long silky mustaches slightly
stirred by the soft air, his fingers touching the strings; but back in
the shadows of the bushes was seen another figure, apparently engaged
upon some task with feverish eagerness. To Miss Spencer all was
mystery.