lossom, and the marriage to which in some
perfectly inexplicable manner it had led him, but it was not in his
power, even if he had willed it, to conjure up the violence of past
emotions as he could summon back the outlines of the landscape which had
served as their objective background.

"Molly," he said, riding closer to her as they passed into the turnpike,
"I wish I knew why we are going on this wild goose chase after the
miller?"

"I'm not going after him--it's only that I want to hear him speak. I
don't see why that should surprise you."

"I didn't know that you were interested in politics?"

"I'm not--in politics."

"In the miller then?"

"Why shouldn't I be interested in him? I've known him all my life."

"The fact remains that you're in a different position now and can't
afford a free rein to your sportive fancies."

"He'd be the last to admit what you say about position--if you mean
class. He doesn't believe in any such thing, nor do I."

"Money, my dear, is the only solid barrier--but he's got a wife,
anyway."

"Judy and I are friends. That's another reason for my wanting to hear
him."

"But to ride six miles at three o'clock on a scorching day to listen to
a stump speech by a rustic agitator, seems to me a bit ridiculous."

"There was no reason for your coming, Jonathan. I didn't ask you."

"I accept the reproof, and I am silent--but I can't resist returning it
by telling you that you need a man's strong hand as much as any woman I
ever saw."

"I don't need yours anyway."

"By Jove, that's just whose, my pretty. You needn't think that because I
haven't made you love me, I couldn't."

"I doubt it very much--but you may think so if you choose."

"Suppose I were to dress in corduroy and run a grist mill."

Her laugh came readily.

"You're too fat!"

"Another thrust like that, and I'll gallop off and leave you."

His face was bent toward hers, and it was only the quick change in her
expression, and the restive start of her horse, that made him swerve
suddenly aside and glance at the blazed pine they were passing. Leaning
against the tree, with her arms resting on the bars, and her body
as still as if it were chiselled out of stone, Blossom Revercomb was
watching them over a row of tall tiger lilies. Her features were drawn
and pallid, as if from sharp physical pain, and a blight had spread over
her beauty, like the decay of a flower that feeds a canker at its heart.

With an exclamat