"

"You know what I mean, Jack. What other man would have thrown away a
small fortune--all he had--just for me?"

"I can name one other," suggested Kilmeny.

"Ned! But he's a saint."

"And I'm a sinner," her lover replied blithely.

"You're the sinner I love, then."

They had reached a clump of firs. Without knowing how it happened she
found herself in his arms. There were both tears and laughter in her
eyes as her lips turned slowly to meet his.

"The first time since we were kiddies on the _Victorian_, sweetheart,"
he told her.

"Yes, it's true. I loved you then. I love you now.... Jack, boy, I'm
just the happiest girl alive."

A mist-like veil of old rose hung above the mountain tops. Hand in hand
they watched the rising sun pierce through it and flood the crotches of
the hills with God's splendid canvases. It was a part of love's egoism
that all this glory of the young day seemed an accompaniment to the song
of joy that pulsed through them.

Later they came to earth and babbled the nonsense that is the highest
wisdom of lovers. They built air castles and lived in them, seeing life
through a poetic ambient as a long summer day in which they should ride
and work and play together.

At last she remembered Lady Farquhar and began to laugh.

"We must go down and tell her at once, Jack."

He agreed. "Yes, let's go back and have it out. If you like you may go
to your room and I'll tackle her alone."

"I'd rather go with you."

He delighted in her answer.

Farquhar was taking an early morning stroll, arm in arm with Lady Jim,
when he caught sight of them.

"Look, Di!"

Both of the lovers knew how to walk. Lady Farquhar, watching them,
thought she had never seen as fine a pair of untamed human beings. In
his step was the fine free swing of the hillman, and the young woman
breasted the slope lightly as a faun.

The Englishman chuckled. "You're beaten, Di. The highwayman wins."

"Nonsense," she retorted sharply, but with anxiety manifest in her
frown.

"Fact, just the same. He's coming to tell us he means to take our little
girl to his robber den."

"I believe you'd actually let him," she said scornfully.

"Even you can't stop him. It's written in the books. Not sure I'd
interfere if I could. For a middle-aged Pharisee with the gout I'm
incurably romantic. It's the child's one great chance for happiness. But
I wish to the deuce he wasn't a highgrader."

"She shan't sacrifice herself if I can pr