ing breast.

"How game is my girl?" he asked, taking Mary Hope in his arms. "Is she
game enough to stay here while Lance goes for a doctor? It won't be
long--" He paused while he made a rapid mental calculation of the
distance, and of what a horse may endure. "Three hours. Will my girl
be brave enough to stay here three hours? I'll call the man who was
mowing--if I can find him. But that will take minutes. Three
hours--and you won't weaken, will you, dear?"

Mary Hope leaned against him, clutched him, shivered at the crashing
thunder. "It's awful," she moaned. "I'm afraid you might be hit--"

"Afraid? A Douglas not as game as a Lorrigan?" He shook her, lifted
his eyebrows at her, pursed his lips at her, shook her again and
kissed her. "I can't love a girl who's afraid of thunder. Your
mother's all right, you know. We saw where that bolt struck--fifty
yards, almost, from where she was. She got a shock, that's all. But
we'll have a doctor here and make him take the responsibility. And
I'll be back in three hours, and you're going to be game--just as game
as you've always been."

He pulled his hat down over his eyes, buttoned his wet coat to the
chin, laid his hand for a minute over the faintly pulsating heart of
Mother Douglas, swept Mary Hope up in his arms and kissed her again,
pulled open the door and was gone.

Through a rain-blurred window Mary Hope saw him run to the stable,
lead out Coaley who had taken refuge there, vault into the saddle
without troubling about the stirrup, and come thundering back past the
house and out of the gate, his head bent to the storm.

She looked at the clock. Three hours? He could never do it in three
hours! She went back and knelt beside the bed, and prayed as her
mother had taught her to pray. And not all of her petition was for her
mother. Every lightning flash, every crack, every distant boom of the
thunder made her cringe. Lance--Lance was out in the storm, at the
mercy of its terrible sword-thrusts that seemed to smite even the
innocent. Her mother--even her own mother, who had held unswervingly
to her faith--even she had been struck down!

A mile down the road Lance was leaning forward, encouraging Coaley to
more speed, because there the trail ran level and fairly free from
rocks. Later, he pulled the horse down to a walk, breathing him up a
hill; let him trot down the slope beyond, picked him into a swift
gallop when they again struck the level. He gauged, with coldblood