ring that there were
times when he did not come. If he should not be on the way now, if she
should fail to meet him, if he should be still at his far-off home, or
have gone elsewhere--But she threw the paralyzing thought from her and
suddenly began to strike the pony again and again, with her soft little
open hands.

"Faster! You must go faster--you must! Surely you can. Please! It isn't
very far. We must be almost there!"

It would have been hard to tell whether the short, sharp strokes were
blows or caresses, and they ceased almost as abruptly as they had begun.
She was now nearly lying across his straining shoulders, and her soft,
bare arms were around his rough, shaggy neck. She did not know what she
was doing, the boy had taught her to ride so--barebacked in the
fields--when she was a child. And she did not know that the pony's mane
was wet with her tears. There was no sound of weeping or faltering in
the tone with which she urged him on. That rang clear and strong with
the invincible courage and strength which love's miracle gives to the
most timid and the weakest.

She was not holding to the saddle, but was clinging to it as
unconsciously as the mist clung to her skirts. Her long black hair,
fallen away from its fastenings, streamed in the wind; but she gave it
no heed except to toss it out of her eyes so that she might see the
pony's head, and try to look beyond toward Anvil Rock. How far off it
still seemed! Would she never reach it? The night seemed to be growing
darker, and she could not make out the mass glooming through the
darkness as she had seen it at first. But she was not afraid of the
growing blackness. This timid, gentle girl, who had hitherto been afraid
of her own shadow, was now suddenly lost to all sense of fear. She
thought nothing of the wild darkness into which she was thus flying
blindly and alone. She had forgotten the terror of the time, and the
dangers of the wilderness. She was oblivious of the utter silence, which
wrapped the region in awful mystery. She heard nothing but the rush of
the pony's running feet, and felt nothing but the leaping of her own
heart. Her only thought was to reach the goal in time; her only fear was
that she might fail.

Her ceaseless cry was goading the brave little beast like a spur. He
still leapt in response to it; but his every sinew was already strained
to breaking, and he was nearing the end of his endurance. The night had
now become so dark that neith