gs her here."

Jessica wrote, as she said she would; but, for all that, a fortnight
later she was walking down the wharf with the "mountain woman," and I
was sauntering beside Leroy. At dinner Jessica gave me no chance to talk
with our friend's wife, and I only caught the quiet contralto tones of
her voice now and then contrasting with Jessica's vivacious soprano. A
drizzling rain came up from the east with nightfall. Little groups of
shivering men and women sat about in the parlors at the card-tables,
and one blond woman sang love songs. The Brainards were tired with their
journey, and left us early. When they were gone, Jessica burst into
eulogy.

"That is the first woman," she declared, "I ever met who would make a
fit heroine for a book."

"Then you will not feel under obligations to educate her, as you
insinuated the other day?"

"Educate her! I only hope she will help me to unlearn some of the things
I know. I never saw such simplicity. It is antique!"

"You're sure it's not mere vacuity?" "Victor! How can you? But you
haven't talked with her. You must to-morrow. Good-night." She gathered
up her trailing skirts and started down the corridor. Suddenly she
turned back. "For Heaven's sake!" she whispered, in an awed tone, "I
never even noticed what she had on!"

The next morning early we made up a riding party, and I rode with
Mrs. Brainard. She was as tall as I, and sat in her saddle as if quite
unconscious of her animal. The road stretched hard and inviting under
our horses' feet. The wind smelled salt. The sky was ragged with gray
masses of cloud scudding across the blue. I was beginning to glow with
exhilaration, when suddenly my companion drew in her horse.

"If you do not mind, we will go back," she said.

Her tone was dejected. I thought she was tired.

"Oh, no!" she protested, when I apologized for my thoughtlessness in
bringing her so far. "I'm not tired. I can ride all day. Where I come
from, we have to ride if we want to go anywhere; but here there seems to
be no particular place to--to reach."

"Are you so utilitarian?" I asked, laughingly. "Must you always have
some reason for everything you do? I do so many things just for the mere
pleasure of doing them, I'm afraid you will have a very poor opinion of
me."

"That is not what I mean," she said, flushing, and turning her large
gray eyes on me. "You must not think I have a reason for everything I
do." She was very earnest, and it was evident