Boulder Dam. Zane Grey

Biff Weston, the old All-American fullback,” rang out an excited voice. “I’ve seen him here before. . . . Did you get off lucky? I’m telling you.”

      Anne heard Lynn’s caustic imprecation, and as they drew beyond the store she looked up. “I heard what he said. Biff Weston. What’d they call you that for?”

      “I’m afraid I had a bad rep for biffing fellows. It sure was hard to keep from handing that guy one. But, Anne, please overlook it. I didn’t want to draw attention to you.”

      “Oh! I wonder. Would I have been distressed if—if you—biffed him—as you call it? . . . Oh, dear, it makes me miserable. It enrages me!”

      “What does, Anne?”

      “I can’t go anywhere. I can’t poke my darned face outdoors that I’m not followed or annoyed or insulted—or—or kidnapped.”

      “Child, if you were older and vainer you’d get a tremendous kick out of that. You’ve got what every woman would give her soul for. You’ve got what Helen of Troy had.”

      “And that was—Lynn?” asked Anne, stumbling along, as she tilted up her head.

      “A lovely face and beautiful body. It’s a tough break, Anne. But I confess I wouldn’t change them if I could.”

      “Well, I would,” Anne averred stoutly.

      Anne’s bundles on top of those that Lynn had deposited in the back of the car filled it completely.

      “Anne, what’d you have done that night if my car had been as full as it is now?”

      “Oh, I don’t know,” Anne wailed at the very thought.

      “Would we dare go . . . No, we wouldn’t. Anne, you’re playing he—havoc with my will power. . . . Get in, girl. Aren’t you going back with me? Home? . . . Don’t sit so faraway. It’ll be cold, and you have my fleece-lined coat.”

      “I’m afraid to be happy,” she whispered to herself. And all the rest of the way down into the basin and across to and beyond the camp she was silent.

      That evening passed somewhat like the preceding one except that Lynn did not take Anne for a walk. The many packages lay unopened on the floor and table.

      Next afternoon Lynn rushed back to the cabin, eager to see Anne again and to do some wood chopping and other chores. He had gotten by the first happy circumstance, but no more, when Anne called his attention to a big shiny touring car coming down the road.

      “Visitors. They’re always butting in,” muttered Lynn. The car came on to the mess hall, where it halted, evidently to allow the chauffeur to ask directions. Then it came on by the tents, straight for the lonesome cabin beyond.

      “It’s coming here,” Anne whispered with agitation.

      “No! Who’d want to see me? . . . But by thunder, it’s come past the tents! . . . Anne, hide in the woodshed.”

      Presently Lynn could no longer see the car from his window. But he heard it come on and stop. The snap of a car door and the sound of a girl’s quick high-pitched voice sent Lynn’s heart thumping into his throat.

      Then followed a nervous rapping on his door. Lynn pulled it open with a sweep. A fashionably attired young woman, with blond hair waving superbly under her little hat and blue eyes darkly expectant, stood before his threshold.

      “Biff! How perfectly fine you look—you big bronzed giant,” she said with a dazzling smile.

      “Helen!”