ness of the boy's eyes; words failed her suddenly, and
she pulled her hands away, and hid her face in them. "I won't go with
you--I'll go home, if you aren't nice to me--if----"

"You can't go home now." There was something in the boy's voice that was
like the fierce clasp of his hands, something from which it was not so
easy to escape. "It might be better if you hadn't come, better for both
of us, but you can't go back now. It's too late. Yes, we'll have
to-night. Get in, Judith."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"Get in, Judith."

"I won't go. You can't make me."

The boy did not answer or move. Boy and buggy and horse--Charlie Brady's
ancient chestnut mare, not such a dignified creature by daylight, but
high shouldered and mysterious now against the dark of the grove--might
all have been part of the surrounding dark, they were so still, and
Judith's little white figure was motionless, too.

Judith stood looking up at the boy for one long, silent minute. Such
minutes are really longer than other minutes, if you measure them by
heartbeats, and how else are you to measure them? Strange, breathless
minutes, that settle grave questions irrevocably by the mere fact of
their passing, whether you watch them pass with open eyes or are
helpless and young and vaguely afraid before them; helpless, but full of
the untaught strength of youth, which works miracles without knowing how
or why.

"Get in," said the boy, very softly this time, so that his voice just
made itself heard through the dark; it was like part of the dark,
caressing and hushed and secret, and not to be denied. With a soft
little laugh that was attuned to it, Judith yielded suddenly, and
slipped into the carriage beside him, drawing the robe tight round her,
and settling into her corner, all with one quick, nestling motion, like
a bird perching.

"Where are we going?" she said rather breathlessly, "Hurry. Let's go a
long, long way."

"All right. Don't be frightened, Judith."

"Frightened?"

He did not answer. Charlie's horse, debarred from its destined career by
bad driving, that broke its wind in its first race, but of sporting
ancestry and unable to forget it, especially when Charlie's adventures
in the Green River under-world cheated it of exercise too long, was
remembering it now, and bolting down the hilly little street, settled at
last into a jerky and tentative gait with the air of accepting their
guidance until it could arrange further plans, but r