he rhythm of her posting, but loved the roughness
of it. The heights thralled her. Up, up, into the blue and gold, she
trembled with the ecstasy of the thought, like the bee princess in
nuptial flight--a June day like this--up, up, until the followers had
fallen back--all but two--all but one--which one?... There was a slight
pull at her skirt. She turned.

He was laughing. His hand held a fold of her dress against the cantle
of the saddle. She could not have fallen on the far side, and he was on
this.... A sudden plunge of a mount would unseat any rider, staring
straight up.... Yes, he was there!... How different the world
looked--with him there. She had ridden alone so long. She dared to look
at him again.

His eyes were fastened ahead. Could it be illusion--their fiery
intentness? She followed his glance.... The big woods--she knew them,
had ridden by them many times--how deep and green they looked!... But
what was the meaning of that set, inexorable line of his profile? What
was he battling? That was her word, her portion. For hours, days, years
she had been battling, but not now! No longer would she be one of the
veal calves tied to a post on the world's highway, to consume the pity
of poor avatars!... Avatars--the word changed the whole order of her
thoughts; and those which came were not like hers, but reckless
ventures on forbidden ground; and, too, there was zest in the very
foreignness of the thoughts: Avatars--did they not spring into being
from such instants as this--high noon, vitality rising to the sun, all
earth in the stillness of creation; and above, blue and gold, millions
and millions of leagues of sheer happiness; and behind--put far behind
for the hour--all crawling and contending creatures....

And now the yellow-brown studio would not remain behind, but swept
clearly into her thinking. Something was queer about it. Yes, the havoc
of loneliness and suffering was gone.... And there seemed a rustling in
the far shadows of the little room. Could it be the Shadowy Sister
returning? And that instant, with a realism that haunted her for years,
there came--to her human or psychic sense, she could never tell--_a
tiny cry!_... Beth almost swooned. His hand sustained ... and then she
saw again his laughing face; all the intensity gone. It was carved of
sunlight. Everything was sunlight.

Beth spoke to Clarendon. She would ride--show him, she needed no hand
in riding. The great beast settled down to his f