The next day Francis carried out his cherished intention of being a “bit bad,” and in violation of orders, surreptitiously mounted a “real horse” instead of his well-behaved little pony, and set out on adventure bound.

The horse, surprised at his burden, cantered casually along at first; then, resenting the intrusion, began to toss his head, snort and curvet about. The lad, a little frightened but game, kept his seat and the horse, seemingly ashamed to trifle longer with so small a foe, resumed his easy canter, though at a swifter pace than Francis was wont to ride. All might have ended well, had not Kurt in his home-made car suddenly sounded a blatant horn as he came around a curve. To his vision was disclosed a plunging horse and a small, fair-haired atom of a boy clinging to his neck. There was a forward plunge and the horse thundered on like mad along a narrow slant of road with never a slackening of speed.

Kurt cranked up for pursuit, but his crude craft was not built on speed lines, and he saw the distance fast eaten up between him and the frenzied horse. Then, with tiger swiftness, Kingdon’s car, a motor of make, passed him, Gene at the wheel, Pen beside him. The sight gave him no hope. They could doubtless overtake the horse, but they could not stop him and if they could, the boy would be thrown.

Pen’s clear young voice came like a clarion call:

“Stick tight, Francis! Burr-tight! We’ll get you all right.”

Gene steered the car to the cliff side of the road to prevent the peril of a plunge by the horse.

When the long, low racing car was nearly up to the Mazeppa flier, a thrill ran through Kurt as he saw Pen step out on the running board. He forgot the boy’s danger as he divined her purpose.

The car closed in on the horse. The girl leaned far out, snatched the boy from the horse and climbed back into the car which now slowed up.

It was done in a second, so swiftly, so aptly that Kurt could only sit and gape with the sort of fore-knowledge that it must come out all right, as one gazes at a thrilling scene in a motion picture. When he came alongside the car, Gene looked up with a challenging grin. Francis, though pale and breathing quickly, wore a triumphant look. Pen’s expression was entirely normal.

Kurt tried to speak, but his voice was dry in his throat.

“I stuck on, didn’t I?” clamored Francis in satisfied tone.

Then Kurt recovered and began to reprimand the lad, but a certain sparkle in Pen’s eyes as she clasped the lad to her restrained him.

He turned upon Gene.

“Did you know she was going to do that?”

“Sure!” was the confident reply. “I knew she could do it.”

He flung Kingdon’s racer into motion and slid on down the white ribbon of road to the ranch, while Kurt’s little machine rattled and creaked and jolted along.

“He’ll be sore at coming in after the black flag,” chuckled Gene. “Kurt ain’t used to being second, but I don’t often get a chance at this car.”

Kurt didn’t come up to the house all that day until long after the dinner hour. He found Pen alone in the invitingly-furnished sitting room, the amber light from a shaded lamp bringing out the gleaming gold in her hair.

She looked up with a shy smile of welcome, and instantly he felt the charm a woman could bring to a room like this—a room full of rest and harmony—a haven to a man wearied from the day’s work.

He sat by the table opposite her—too content to desire his pipe.

“Where are they all?” he asked presently.

“Francis was tired and repentant after the excitement wore off and was quite ready to go to bed early. Billy and Betty followed suit. Mrs. Merlin has a headache.”

“How did you come to be riding with Gene this morning?” he asked abruptly.

“Mrs. Merlin asked us to go to her cottage for some things she needed. She thought Gene wouldn’t be able to find them.”

The natural tone of her reply and her utter lack of surprise or resentment at his question quite appeased him.

“It’s a little cool to-night,” he said suddenly. “Wouldn’t you like to have a fire?”

She thought it would be nice, and interestedly watched him build one in the big fireplace.

He formed a fortress of logs with the usual huge one for a background. When he had a fire to his liking he came and sat beside her.

“That was wonderful—what you did this morning,” he said abruptly.

“No; it was simply instinctive.”

“It was a hair-breadth thing to do, but very brave.”

“It wasn’t bravery,” she denied after a moment’s reflection. “It was—I can’t tell you just what it was.”

“It made me bless the fate that led me to you that day.”

“Then,” she said lightly, but coloring confusedly, “I am glad I was able to do it—to repay you and Mrs. Kingdon in part. But where have you been all day?”

“I have been down in the farthest field.”

“Working?”

“Yes; and thinking. Thinking of you—and what you did.”

“Where did you have dinner?”

“I have had none. I am only just aware that I would like some. I came through the kitchen on my way in, but the cook didn’t seem to be about.”

“They are having some sort of entertainment in the mess hall.”

“I am glad you didn’t go,” he said impetuously.

“I thought you would rather I didn’t go,” she replied docilely. “I will try to find you something to eat. Will you come and help me? Cook says you are a champion coffee maker.”

They went through the kitchen into a smaller room.

“Betty calls this the ‘kitchen yet!’ But can you cook?” said Kurt.

“I am glad I won’t be called upon to prove it. The larder’s well larded, and I will set this little table while you make the coffee.”

By the time the coffee was made, she had set forth an inviting little supper. She sat opposite him and poured the coffee. It seemed to him some way that it was the coziest meal he had eaten since his home days—the early home days before his mother died and he had gone to the prunish aunt.

“We must leave things as we found them,” she told him when they could no longer make excuse for lingering.

“I feel in a very domestic mood,” he said, as he wiped the few dishes.

“Do you know I have a very hearthy feeling myself. I know why a cat purrs. Everything is shipshape now. I’ll say good night, and—”

“Come back to the fire,” he entreated. “I want to smoke.”

Back in the library Pen made herself comfortable on one of the window seats, pulling up the shade to let the moonlight stream in.

He followed and sat beside her, watching in silence the pensive, young profile, the straight little features, the parted lips, as she gazed away over the moonlit hills. He felt a strange yearning tenderness.

“Pen!”

She turned, a sweet, alluring look in her eyes.

“Pen!” he said again.

“Yes—Kurt.”

Some alien, inexplicable force seemed to battle with his nature. His lips quivered and then compressed as if in a mighty resolution.

A moment later she slid from the window seat to the floor.

“It is late; good night!” she said quietly.

He rose, took her hand in his and said earnestly:

“Good night, Pen. I wish—”

Again he stopped abruptly.

“I know what you wish,” she said in a matter of fact way; “you are wishing that I had never been—a thief.”

The color flooded his face; embarrassment, longing and regret struggled visibly for mastery.

“Good night,” she repeated, as she quickly sped from the room, leaving him speechless.

Upstairs in her room she stood by the window.

“Kurt,” she soliloquized, “you’ve been weighed and found wanting. You don’t know what love is. No man does. It is a woman’s kingdom.”

Then a radiant smile drove the reflective shadows from her eyes. There had burst forth a whistle, clear, keen, inspiring. Only one person in her world was so lark-like, so jubilant, so joyous of nature as to improvise such a trilling melody.

With an expectant smile she looked out and saw Jo crossing the moonlit lawn.

“Halloa, Jo!” she called softly.

He looked up, extended his cap at arm’s length with a gay flourish and called:

“Bless your little heart of honey! What are you doing up so late?”

“Is it late?” she asked in arch surprise. “I’m so sorry, for I was going to say I’d come down for a little walk with you.”

“’Deed, it’s never too late for that; but say, little Penny Ante, Kurt is sitting in the library window—”

“I am not coming into view of the library window. Wait a moment! Catch this.”

She picked up her sweater from the window seat and threw it down to him, stepped nimbly over the railing of the little balcony, made a quick spring, caught the branch of a nearby tree and slid down to earth.

“Say, you little squirrel! You’d make some sailor. It’s hungry I’ve been for sight of you. I met Gene in town this afternoon and he told me about the wonderful stunt you pulled off this morning for Francis.”

“That was nothing. But—have you come back, Jo?”

“Not yet. I’m motoring in from town and left my car down in the road. I just thought I’d pass by your window and let out a whistle for you.”

“Jo, I came down to say something serious—”

“You can say anything you like to me, Miss Penny Ante,” he replied encouragingly.

“Come away where no one can overhear our voices.”

They strolled away out of the moonlight to the shelter of some shrubbery where they talked long and earnestly. On the way back to the house, Pen, lifting her eyes to his, was struck by the look in his boyish face.

“Jo,” she said, a slight wistfulness in her tone, “you really love—the way a woman loves.”

“What’s the use,” he said defiantly, “if the one I love won’t have me—she—”

He stopped short and looked at her keenly.

“You know, Jo, you must learn to be patient and await—developments.”

A light leaped to his eyes.

“I’ll wait! But the limit mustn’t be too far. Do you know what Gene confided to me to-night? He thinks that Kurt is in love with you!”

She laughed mirthlessly.

“Kurt! He wouldn’t know how to love. If he did, he wouldn’t let himself. He would hang on to his love like a Jew to a bargain. Who would want a grudging love?”

“Kurt is my pal—he—”

“He won’t be if he finds us lingering here. You reconnoitre and see if he is still in the window. I don’t intend to shinny up this tree. It’s so much easier going down than up.”

“You can go in the kitchen way. It’s cook’s affinity night, and she’s somewhere with Gus.”

“The kitchen is where I go in then. Jo, are you very sure that you are in love—enough to marry a thief? You’re only a boy. Better keep your love until you are older.”

“I am not a boy. I am two and twenty.”

“Quite an old man! I’ll see you very soon again, and maybe I can give you—your answer. Kurt goes to town early in the morning. Meet me in the pergola near the garage. Good night!”

By way of the kitchen and back stairs she reached her room undetected.

“Dear old Jo! Poor Kurt!” she thought sleepily, as she stretched herself luxuriously to rest. “It’s a very small, very funny old world, and the thief is certainly getting in deep waters.”

On the trail to Westcott’s, Jo was chuckling to himself.

“The little thief! If she isn’t the slickest little lass I ever saw!”

In the library, oblivious to time and place, Kurt still lingered, his dream-like memories trying to learn the tune that Pan was piping on his reeds.