s eyes shone upon her as she now knew she had always wished them to
shine. Splendid eyes, she had called them in that part of herself where
she had for a long time--quite two days--made pretence of deafness; eyes
very blue and firm, but seldom, until now, to be long held.

"Dick," she said, "that's the first time--just what I wanted."

"What?" he asked.

"Your voice has spoken to me, your ears have heard me, your eyes have
looked at me. But now, your eyes are listening to mine. Oh, Dick!" she
exclaimed.

"Yes," he answered gravely, "it's great to be free."

"Tremendous!" said Amaryllis.

Her hands were looking for her handkerchief in the Brundage pocket. They
encountered a comb, the half-packet of chocolate, a pair of white cotton
gloves which raised a moment's hope, and Dick's pipe, which she had
picked up as they started again on their way; but no handkerchief! And
her cheeks were wet with half-dried tears, and Dick was coming nearer.

"Oh, please," she cried, "do lend me a hanky. You made me a bodice of
one--in that beastly room with the woman--and you took it from a bundle
of them, out of your coat pocket. I felt them there when I wore it. I
left the one you gave me behind, and I've lost my own."

The pathetical-comical expression of a pretty woman in danger of using
elementary means to dry her tears, made Dick Bellamy chuckle with
laughter of a quality that Amaryllis had not heard from him before,
while he chose the least rumpled handkerchief from his stock of four,
and shook it open for her.

She took it, blessing him as women will bless a man for such relief;
and, as she used it, there struck him, like a smack in his face, the
memory of her hand and another handkerchief.

"I saw you use your own," he said, "on the box of that Noah's Ark of a
wagonette. I remember your pretty fingers and action. I hoped nobody
behind us would see that it was a lady blowing her nose. It was a little
handkerchief--your own," he insisted. "When did you lose it?"

Amaryllis perceived that the question bore upon their safety, and
puckered her forehead, thinking.

"I wiped my fingers with it, after I'd taken Tod Sloan's bridle off,"
she answered, "There was a sticky mess of hay and chaff on them from the
bit, and I remember wiping it off with my handkerchief."

"Seen it since?" he asked.

"No," said the girl. "Does it matter? Even if I did drop it then,
Melchard wouldn't go in there. He hadn't any horses."

"The ostler