ere you were.... Now," he forced himself
to say it, "now you can be independent."

"Independent?"

"Why, yes. Do what you like--in reason. Steer your own course. Live as
you want to ... and where ... and _how_ you want to."

They were simple sentences these, but he found them hard to say. She
turned again to look at him.

"Why do you speak like that?" she asked. "How should I want to live?
What do you mean?"

"I mean--er--you can think of your own happiness and--plans, and--all
that. You won't be anchored to the Fair Harbor, unless you want to be.
You.... Eh? Hi! Standby! Whoa! _Whoa!_"

The last commands were roars at the horse, for, at that moment, the
squall struck.

It came out of the blackness to the left and ahead like some enormous
living creature springing over the pine tops and pouncing upon them.
There was a rumble, a roar and then a shrieking rush. The sand of the
road leaped up like the smoke from an explosion, showers of leaves and
twigs pattered sharply upon the buggy top or were thrown smartly into
their faces. From all about came the squeaks and groans of branches
rubbing against each other, with an occasional sharp crack as a limb
gave way under the pressure.

Captain Kendrick and his passenger had been so occupied with their
thoughts and conversation that both had forgotten the heavy clouds they
had noticed when they left Bradley's office, rolling up from the west.
Then, too, the increasing darkness had hidden the sky. So the swoop of
the squall took them completely by surprise.

And not only them but that genuine antique the Foam Flake. This
phlegmatic animal had been enjoying himself for the last half hour. No
one had shouted orders at him, he had not been slapped with the ends of
the reins, no whip had been cracked in his vicinity. He had been
permitted to amble and to walk and had availed himself of the
permission. For the most recent mile he had been, practically, a
somnambulist. Now out of his dreams, whatever they may have been, came
this howling terror. He jumped and snorted. Then the wind, tearing a
prickly dead branch from a scrub oak by the roadside, cast it full into
his dignified countenance. For the first time in ten years at least, the
Foam Flake ran away.

He did not run far, of course; he was not in training for distance
events. But his sprint, although short, was lively and erratic. He
jumped to one side, the side opposite to that from which the branch had
come, jerking