a social favorite on both
sides of the river. It developed that he could sing quite amazingly. His
voice was high-pitched, but there was power and fire in it. He sang easily
and he loved to sing. His songs were the light-opera favorites, the fame
of which reached the border from New York and London, and even Vienna. And
when there was difficulty about getting the accompaniments played he took
his place unaffectedly at the piano and played them himself.

His name began to appear regularly in the Eagle Pass _Guide_ in connection
with social events; and he was not merely mentioned as "among those
present," but there was always something about his skill as a musician.

Of course Sylvia was destined to see him sooner or later, though she
stayed at home with almost morbid fidelity to a resolution she had made.
He rode out the Quemado Road one matchless December day when the very air
would have seemed sufficient to produce flowers without calling the
ungracious desert into service. Sylvia sat in her boudoir by an open
window and watched him approach. She immediately guessed that it was
Runyon. The remarkable manner in which he had conquered the town had made
him an occasional subject for comment between Sylvia and Harboro, and he
had described the man to her.

Sylvia thought that the rider and his horse, with the sun on the man's
flashing blue eyes and the horse's golden dapples, constituted the
prettiest picture she had ever seen. Never before had she observed a man
who sat his horse with such an air of gallantry.

And as she regarded him appraisingly he glanced up at her, and there was
the slightest indication of pleased surprise in his glance. She withdrew
from the window; but when she reckoned that he was well past the house she
looked after him. He was looking back, and their eyes met again.

It is decidedly contrary to my conviction that either Sylvia or Runyon
consciously paved the way for future mischief when they indulged in that
second glance at each other. He was the sort of man who might have
attracted a second glance anywhere, and he would have been a poor fellow
if he had not considered Sylvia a sight worth turning his head for.

Nevertheless, Sylvia regretted that second glance. It had an effect upon
her heart which was far from soothing; and when she realized that her
heart seemed suddenly to hurt her, her conscience followed suit and hurt
her too. She closed the window righteously; though she was careful