“I say, Margey, Will tells me you’ve sold the russet harness. I reckon he’s lying, but I couldn’t see it anywhere in the stable.”

Phillip paused in his work of carving a second slice of lamb for John—the morning’s gunning had been more productive of hunger than partridges, although six brace of birds had rewarded them—and looked anxiously at Margaret.

“Will is right, Phil,” she answered evenly. “You know, dear, we’re not quite so well off as we were before father died and it seemed best to get rid of some of the extra things. We didn’t really need the russet harness. Judge Pottinger took that and two heavy work harnesses.”

“But—but——!” Phillip stared in surprise. “We are surely not so poor that we have to sell things like that to the neighbours, Margey! Great Scott, what do they think of us? And, besides, the russet harness was the best of the lot, and a heap sweller than the black leather. Don’t you think so, John?”

“Russet’s rather out of style, isn’t it?” asked the other.

“Well, I like it better, anyhow,” asserted Phillip, completing his carving with a vicious hack of the knife. “And—what else is gone, Margey? I’d like to know so that when I see the neighbours using our things I won’t charge them with stealing them.”

Margaret’s cheeks flushed a little, but she answered as calmly as before:

“I reckon that’s about all, Phil. I’m sorry you care so much; I didn’t think you would.”

Phillip made no reply, and a moment later the conversation at the dinner table started afresh on other lines. But constraint was visible. Margaret felt hurt that Phillip should have found fault with her before John North; Phillip was plainly out of temper, although he strove not to show it; and John was secretly angry at his friend for wounding Margaret. Of the four, only Mrs. Ryerson maintained her equanimity. She chatted on to John in her quiet, grande-dame fashion of life and customs before the war, and John answered perfunctorily and wished the repast over with.

When they arose Phillip excused himself and John wandered into the library and filled a pipe. Mrs. Ryerson, as was her invariable custom, ascended to her room again on the arm of Uncle Casper, and Margaret disappeared toward the kitchen. John took down a book at random and settled himself in an easy chair to read. But it proved to be an ancient volume of Hudibras, and it soon lay forgotten on his knee. From where he sat he commanded a view of some fifty yards of gravel drive and terrace. Presently into his range of vision came two figures. They were Phillip and Margaret. Phillip, with head slightly bent and a good deal of colour in his cheeks, was evidently still nursing his displeasure. Margaret walked beside him, one hand on his shoulder, looking gravely into his face. As they passed outside the library window her voice, low, sweet and persuasive, reached the watcher in the chair and suddenly imbued him with a great longing to take Phillip by the neck and dip his head into the brook beyond in the hollow.

Then something incongruous in the girl’s attire awakened his attention, and with a strange throb at his heart he saw that she wore a man’s felt hat; that the hat, a battered, soiled and altogether disreputable affair, was adorned with cabalistic designs and figures; that it bore the initials J. N., and that, in short, it was his own! Presumably, Margaret believed it to be one of her brother’s; or perhaps she had simply picked it up from the hall table in a hurry without looking at it. John could not for an instant deceive himself into believing that there was any coquetry in the incident. But even viewed purely as an accident, the fact that Margaret wore his shabby sombrero perched at the back of her head pleased him vastly. The hat had already been one of his most precious possessions, but now it was sacred—no longer an article of headgear, but an object to be treasured and kept inviolate. John wondered if it were possible to frame hats.

Phillip and Margaret had passed from sight, and he relighted his pipe and, clasping one broad knee with his hands, leaned back and watched the purple smoke-clouds writhe and dance in the sunlight. Their convolutions must have amused him, for he grinned broadly from time to time like a good-natured and thoroughly prepossessing giant.

A quarter of an hour passed. Then the sound of footsteps on the gravel aroused him and he looked out. Phillip and Margaret were returning. But now Phillip’s arm was about his sister’s waist and the two were laughing contentedly. Margaret’s eyes under the broad brim of the hat, which she had pulled forward to keep the sun from her face, were dancing and glowing. Phillip caught sight of John and beckoned him outside. The latter nodded and knocked the ashes from his pipe. Then he sighed.

“It’s sheer poppycock to imagine that a girl like that can ever care for me,” he thought ruefully. He picked up the volume which had fallen unnoticed to the floor and carried it back to the shelf. As he did so a line caught his eye and he paused and read it:

“By jove,” he muttered, “Butler had some sense, after all!”

Phillip and his sister were awaiting him before the porch.

“Put your hat on and come along,” Phillip commanded. “We’re going over to the stable.”

“All right, but I don’t need a hat,” John answered evasively as he joined them.

“Oh, but I really think you’d better put one on,” Margaret said. “It’s so easy to take cold these days.”

“Why, of course, I’ll get one.” John returned to the hall. But the choice was limited, and he finally selected a ridiculously small woolen cap which didn’t begin to go onto the back of his head. Phillip laughed loudly when he saw it.

“You’re a sight!” he said. “Look just like Tommy Dutton of our class. He has a head like a big cannon ball and always wears a funny little green cap at the back of it. You can’t see the cap until Tommy has gone by. That’s Margaret’s, isn’t it, Margey? And, I say, you’ve got his!”

“It’s of no consequence,” murmured John. “I can wear this beautifully if you don’t mind.”

Margaret removed the sombrero and viewed it in astonishment that speedily gave place to dismay. The colour flooded into her face as she held the hat toward John.

“I didn’t notice,” she said. “I’m very sorry. Will you change with me, please?”

John did so.

“I’m sure you didn’t know,” he answered gravely, taking pity on her confusion and forbearing to utter any one of the numerous gallant things that came into his mind.

“There’s a penalty, isn’t there?” laughed Phillip.

Margaret pretended that she had not heard, and John smiled at her brother ferociously and ranged himself alongside.

“I’ll break your neck if you don’t shut up, Phil!” he muttered pleasantly.

Phillip grinned back. “I wish I could blush the way you can, John,” he whispered.

Later they rode; and John decided that if Margaret was captivating in the simple gowns he had seen her wear she was adorable in her close-fitting black habit. The way in which she managed the unruly Cardinal was marvelous, and John, trotting alongside on his staid mare, Ruby, experienced a vast contempt for his own horsemanship. They went westward, around the “hog-back,” over a broad, well-traveled highway which Phillip explained had been built during the war by the Northern army, past smiling, sunlit fields and comfortable, broad-porched houses. As they swept abreast up a hill Phillip reined in and listened intently with hand at ear.

“What is it, Phil?” Margaret turned her horse and joined him.

“I thought I heard a whistle,” he answered. John listened but caught only the stirring of the wind in the trees beside them. Phillip pointed to the roadway.

“It’s been by here not very long ago,” he said. Margaret nodded. John looked perplexedly from the road to Phillip.

“What is it,” he asked; “Injuns?”

“No; engine,” answered Margaret.

“It’s a traction engine,” Phillip explained. “It’s been up along here, and I thought I heard a whistle. Ruby can’t stand traction engines and I reckon Cardinal would simply throw a fit if we met one. I reckon we’d better turn back.”

“But it’s just as likely to have gone toward town as this way, Phil,” Margaret objected; “and I did want Mr. North to see the view from Pine Top.”

“All right,” Phillip assented doubtfully. “When we get to the top we can see what’s doing.”

“‘Tracking the Traction Engine, or Wild Life in Virginia,’” laughed John. “I’ll write it up for the Advocate.”

“No, send it to the Illustrated,” answered Phillip, “with our photographs.”

They went on up the hill, which was long but of easy ascent, and which at the summit turned abruptly to the right around a wooded promontory. Cardinal broke impatiently into a canter and John’s mare laid back her ears and strove to catch up with him. They reached the summit and the turn girth to girth. Then several things happened within the instant.

A dozen yards ahead of them, drawn up to the side of the road, stood the traction engine, sizzling and wheezing. Several forms moved about it, and even in the brief instant that John looked a sudden spurt of steam arose, there was a diabolical screech, and the monster trundled slowly forward. At sight of the engine both horses had flung back, snorting with fear. The mare plunged and circled, while Cardinal, wheeling suddenly in a very madness of terror, struck her, shoulder to thigh, nearly unseating John, and leaped forward down the hill.

Margaret had been riding with slack reins and was wholly unprepared, and ere she could bring her weight upon the curb Cardinal was in full and headlong flight. Phillip, riding several yards behind, with the scene at the summit hidden from his sight by the trees, heard the whistle and dug his spurs. Winchester raced toward the top of the hill, and at the same moment Cardinal swept by, narrowly missing him. In a panic Phillip sawed at the mouth of Winchester and strove to turn him, but before he had succeeded the mare, too, rushed by, her eyes showing white, John bent low over her neck.

Cardinal had made good use of his start. Down the whole interminable length of that slowly winding hill he was not once in sight to John’s straining eyes. Trees and fences whirled by. Ruby’s hoofs thundered on the hard roadbed as she leaped onward, head outstretched, wild with fear. It was a mad ride in which a slip or stumble meant probable death to both rider and horse. But John, with the merest suggestion of restraint on the bridle-reins, gave no thought to danger, but leaned forward over the pommel, his eyes fixed anxiously on the farthest stretch of road, his heart leaden with fear for Margaret. Only once did he look aside. A black derby lay by the fence, and he groaned aloud as he thought of what might meet his sight beyond.

Then the last turn was passed, the road stretched straight ahead, level and brown in the sunlight, and John gasped with relief, closing his eyes with a momentary qualm of giddiness. Less than an eighth of a mile away was Cardinal and his rider. The horse was still running hard, but John saw that Margaret sat erect in her saddle. The mare gave signs of flagging—was forgetting her fear under physical distress. John shouted her on, striking her madly on head and neck with the reins, and cursed his stupidity in having come out without spurs. Then he heard hoof-beats behind him and turned to glance backward. Winchester, with Phillip sitting pale-faced in the saddle, was overtaking him. The horse’s neck was flecked with foam and he was bleeding in the flanks from the roweling he had received. In a moment the two horses were neck and neck.

“She’s safe now—I think!” shouted Phillip.

John made no answer, but urged the mare forward. With a snort she obeyed and side by side the two raced on. For a minute a line of trees hid Cardinal and the black figure upon him from the sight of the pursuers, and in that moment John suffered tortures. Yet when his eyes again found them he saw that the interim had told on the runaway and that the vigour had gone from his pace. After that they began to come up with him perceptibly. Half a mile farther they were but a hundred yards or so behind. John turned and shouted above the pounding of the hoofs:

“She’s broke something!”

“Curb-rein!” answered Phillip.

Margaret glanced around; then they saw her settle back in her saddle and saw her elbows working as she bent all her strength on the reins. Cardinal’s head came up, he plunged once or twice, and then came down to a canter as the pursuers caught up with him. Phillip and John flung themselves from their horses and the former seized Cardinal’s bridle. Margaret dropped the reins and put her hands to her head; her hair had come undone and was hanging down in long brown plaits. When John saw her face he found it pale but smiling.

“You’re all right!” he asked hoarsely.

“Yes.” She leaned forward, folding her hands upon the pommel. “I didn’t mind after we were off the hill.”

John placed his own hand over hers. She felt it trembling and looked down at him in surprise, her brown eyes narrowing a little as they met his.

“I thought—I feared——!” He broke off with a gulp, his white face working convulsively. Margaret’s eyes dropped, and the colour, which had begun to steal back into her cheeks, fled again quickly. She withdrew her hands slowly from under his and her voice was uncertain.

“I’m sorry I gave you both such a fright.”

“Shucks!” cried Phillip, gazing wrathfully at Cardinal; “it wasn’t your fault! I’ll kill this brute when I get him home!”

“No, Phil, you mustn’t hurt Cardinal. It wasn’t his fault either. He was more scared than any of us. It was that awful engine.”

“Your gloves are torn!” exclaimed John. She held them up smilingly; each was ripped up the palm. “Let me take them off,” he begged. She hesitated and then held them down. John peeled them off one after the other, leaving bare two red and swollen hands.

“The brute!” he muttered, looking at them commiseratingly. Margaret tried to withdraw them, but he held them fast.

“Are they hurt?” he asked.

“No; but my hair——”

He bent over, and, ere Margaret knew what he was doing, pressed both palms to his lips.

“Poor little hands!” he said softly.

Margaret gave a little gasp and tore them away. With crimson cheeks and averted head she strove to fix her hair. John turned to Phillip. If the latter had seen he gave no evidence of the fact, but was examining the broken rein.

“Your sister must take my horse the rest of the way,” John said.

“All right; and you can have Winchester.”

“No,” said John grimly; “I want the other. I like him. I think we shall get on finely together.” He stroked Cardinal’s quivering muzzle. “You’d like me to ride you back, wouldn’t you, you nice, sensible horsie?” he muttered. “You wouldn’t run away with me, would you? You don’t want your damned neck broken, do you? I’d like to own you for about ten minutes, you dear thing!”

Phillip laughed. “I don’t reckon I’ll trust him to you, John. You take Winchester.”

“You may both keep your own horses,” interrupted Margaret. “I shall ride Cardinal myself.”

“Nonsense,” cried Phillip.

“I shall; he is all right now, Phil; he’s tired to death.” She gathered up the reins with a little determined smile.

“Pardon me, Miss Ryerson, for interfering,” said John, “but I don’t think Cardinal can be trusted. He’s awfully nervous. I don’t think you ought to stay on him.”

Their eyes met. John’s were steady and Margaret’s gleamed with the light of battle. Her face was pale and there was a set smile about the mouth.

“Thank you for your thoughtfulness, Mr. North,” she answered calmly, “but I don’t think there is any danger now. Mount, gentlemen!”

John gazed at her with annoyance and admiration mingled. Phillip hesitated doubtfully with his foot in the stirrup.

“She’s splendid,” thought John, “but she ought to be pulled out of that saddle and kissed until she behaves!”

“Come, Cardinal!” called Margaret gaily. But she was watching John from the corners of her eyes and a tight rein countermanded her own order; Cardinal stood still. John drew his horse toward her and made a pretense of examining Cardinal’s girth. Then he said in tones that only Margaret could hear:

“Get out of that saddle at once. I won’t have you killed, even if you want it. If you’re not on the ground before I count ten I’ll—do—it—again!”

He seized her nearest hand. “One!”

She stared down at him haughtily, the colour flooding her face and her eyes darkening.

“Two!

“Three!

“Four!”

“Let go of my hand, please,” she said angrily but in low tones.

“Five!

“Six!”

“If you dare——!” But her voice trembled.

“Seven!”

“What the deuce are you two up to?” asked Phillip.

“Eight!”

“I—I think I’ll let Mr. North ride Cardinal,” said Margaret unsteadily. “Will you help me off, Phil?”

“Why, John will do it,” replied Phillip wonderingly.

Margaret bit her lips and stared fixedly at Cardinal’s drooping ears.

“Nine!” said John in a polite, conversational tone. His grasp on her hand tightened. She cast a frightened glance at Phillip, who had mounted and was wheeling Winchester toward home. Her eyes filled as she dropped the reins and took her knee from the horn. John held up his hands and she slipped to the ground.

“I hate you!” she sobbed.

“I love you!” he whispered.