laid two volumes upon her table.

"And what do you think of them?" she inquired.

"I think that I've cert'nly earned a good long ride to-day."

"Georgie Taylor has sprained his ankle."

"No, I don't mean that kind of a ride. I've earned a ride with just us
two alone. I've read every word of both of 'em, yu' know."

"I'll think about it. Did you like them?"

"No. Not much. If I'd knowed that one was a detective story, I'd have
got yu' to try something else on me. Can you guess the murderer, or is
the author too smart for yu'? That's all they amount to. Well, he was
too smart for me this time, but that didn't distress me any. That other
book talks too much."

Molly was scandalized, and she told him it was a great work.

"Oh, yes, yes. A fine book. But it will keep up its talkin'. Don't let
you alone."

"Didn't you feel sorry for poor Maggie Tulliver?"

"Hmp. Yes. Sorry for her, and for Tawmmy, too. But the man did right to
drownd 'em both."

"It wasn't a man. A woman wrote that."

"A woman did! Well, then, o' course she talks too much."

"I'll not go riding with you!" shrieked Molly.

But she did. And he returned to Sunk Creek, not with a detective story,
but this time with a Russian novel.

It was almost April when he brought it back to her--and a heavy sleet
storm lost them their ride. So he spent his time indoors with her, not
speaking a syllable of love. When he came to take his departure, he
asked her for some other book by this same Russian. But she had no more.

"I wish you had," he said. "I've never saw a book could tell the truth
like that one does."

"Why, what do you like about it?" she exclaimed. To her it had been
distasteful.

"Everything," he answered. "That young come-outer, and his fam'ly that
can't understand him--for he is broad gauge, yu' see, and they are
narro' gauge." The Virginian looked at Molly a moment almost shyly. "Do
you know," he said, and a blush spread over his face, "I pretty near
cried when that young come-outer was dyin', and said about himself,
'I was a giant.' Life made him broad gauge, yu' see, and then took his
chance away."

Molly liked the Virginian for his blush. It made him very handsome. But
she thought that it came from his confession about "pretty near crying."
The deeper cause she failed to divine,--that he, like the dying hero in
the novel, felt himself to be a giant whom life had made "broad gauge,"
and denied opportunity. Fecund nature begets and