t his face, in spite of the soft and easy life she
understood him to have led.

Ted and Ruth now came panting up to them, and the four climbed together
to the hilltop.

Roberta turned and scanned the sun. Immediately she decreed that it was
time to be off, reminding her protesting young brother that the November
dusk falls early and that it would be dark before they were at home.

Richard put both sisters into their saddles with the ease of an old
horseman. "I've often regretted selling a certain black beauty named
Desperado," he remarked as he did so, "but never more than at this
minute. My motor there strikes me as disgustingly overadequate to-day. I
can't keep you company by any speed adjustment in my control, and if I
could your steeds wouldn't stand it. I'll let you start down before me
and stay here for a bit. It's too pleasant a place to leave. And even
then I shall be at home before you--worse luck!"

"We're sorry, too," said Ruth, and Ted agreed, vociferously. As for
Roberta, she let her eyes meet his for a moment in a way so rare with
her, whose heavy lashes were forever interfering with any man's direct
gaze, that Richard made the most of his opportunity. He saw clearly at
last that those eyes were of the deepest sea blue, darkened almost to
black by the shadowing lashes. If by some hard chance he should never
see them again he knew he could not forget them.

With beat of impatient hoofs upon the hard road the three were off,
their chorusing farewells coming back to him over their shoulders. When
they were out of sight he went back to the place on the hilltop where he
had stood beside Roberta, and thought it all over. In that way only
could he make shift to prolong the happiness of the hour.

The happiness of the hour! What had there been about it to make it the
happiest hour he could recall? Such a simple, outdoor encounter! He had
spent many an hour which had lingered in his memory--hours in places
made enchanting to the eye by every device of cunning, in the society of
women chosen for their beauty, their wit, their power to allure, to
fascinate, to intoxicate. He had had his senses appealed to by every
form of attraction a clever woman can fabricate, herself a miracle of
art in dress, in smile, in speech. He had gone from more than one door
with his head swimming, the vivid recollection of the hour just past a
drug more potent than the wine that had touched his lips.

His head was not swimming now,