mering azure sky, the sun beamed mildly down,
penetrating the chill of the morning, yet leaving
enough tang to bring a bloom to their
cheeks. On their left the river, high with melted
snows from the north, moved in slow eddies near
the shore, quicker eddies away from the shore,
steady and swift flow in the middle -- a changing,
fascinating panorama. There fell a long silence
before she turned to the young man beside her.

"Well, Mr. Native," she began, smiling, "I
hope you don't mean to bury yourself this morning!
For more than a month you have had very
little to say to me. I don't like it, because I can't
understand it, and so I won't have it!" Then she
became serious. "Whatever is the matter, Stephen?"

Pat, walking slowly beside the unfriendly horse,
was attentive. He heard his mistress's voice, and
somehow knew she was troubled. Then directly
he had positive proof of this, for she suddenly
began to stroke his neck and shoulders. Always
she did this when thoughtful, but though he
strained his ears for further sounds of her voice,
he did not hear her. What he did hear presently
was the voice of the young man, and having
learned long before to discriminate between different
shades of the human voice, he knew from
its low and tense quality that the topic was a
vital one. He listened sharply, heedful of any
least change of intonation that might be interpreted
as a climax. But instead he was relieved
presently to hear the voice of his mistress again,

[[128]]

p127 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p128w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p129

v?