laid it on the indistinct bed, and moved to the mirror
of a small bureau, where her hands glided over her
smooth hair.

"Men are so -- elementary," she observed, "and all
alike. I wish I could feel what you do," she turned
to Gordon, "just once."

"What are you made of?" he demanded tensely;
"stone?"

"I often wonder."

She crossed the room to the gallery, where she
glanced swiftly about. "You must leave, and I'll
go down to supper. Next Sunday I am going to
walk... in the morning."

"If you go out by the priest's," he suggested, "and
turn to the right, you will find a pretty stream;
further down there's an old mill."

She drew back, waiting for him to descend to the
ground below.

Simmons' clerk was standing on the platform before
the store, and Gordon drew up. "How's Buckley?"
he inquired.

"Bad," the other answered laconically. "They
sent to Stenton for help. His head's cracked. It's
funny," he commented, "with a hundred people
around nobody saw that stone thrown 'tall."

"It don't do sometimes to see this and that," Gordon
explained, tightening the reins.

He unhitched the horse in his shed-like stable

[[202]]

p201 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p202w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p203

v?