She came to herself with Maybelle giving dry little details concerning the girl from Galveston: her looks; how she had dressed; the “pieces” she played—small, definite things that seemed somehow to make her a very living presence to Hilda, and the idea of her engagement to Pearse very real. Her Boy-On-The-Train; her fugitive of the cyclone cellar; Pearse Masters, who, present or absent, had filled a place in her life and thoughts that no one else ever touched or came near to—he was going altogether away from her—almost as if he died. Well, affairs were going on, just as they always do, just as though she’d heard no dreadful heart-shaking thing. She helped to pack the two party dresses which were boxed and sent on ahead in the buggy with Mrs. Marchbanks, Miss Ferguson, Tod and Jinnie. It was about twelve miles to the Grainger ranch, and they started early, so that they need not drive fast. Hilda, Maybelle and Fayte, on their ponies, left the Alamositas in a great, golden haze of sunset. Maybelle had no escort except her brother; even Lefty Adams—who really didn’t count, Hilda would have said—was told shortly, when he proposed to ride over with them, that those were “Pa’s orders.” That’s what Maybelle said, and tried to appear sulky about it, but it was plain to Hilda, as they set off, that she was really, in her quiet way, very much pleased with the arrangement. As the three rode, almost entirely silent, the gold and crimson flamed, and then faded in the west. Dusk stole on; a cooler breath came sweeping up from the south; one by one the great white stars began to show in the sky about—and Fayte proposed a race. They let the ponies out a bit, not so very much, but Hilda soon saw that Maybelle was being left far behind them. “Shall we wait for her—or go back?” she asked, pulling up. “We won’t do either one,” Fayte said. “We’ll go right ahead with our race. Mabs doesn’t want us—and we don’t want her.” “She doesn’t want——” Hilda had held back so long that they could now dimly see Maybelle’s mounted figure following them slowly—and she was not alone. “Oh,” said Hilda; “why, there’s some one with her. Let’s wait and see who it is.” “No—come on. Come on, I say. Hang it all—I know who that is with Mabs. It’s a man that can’t come to the dance. He wants to get a word with her. Come on. Leave them alone. You and I want to be alone, too—don’t we?” And he reached over and caught her bridle rein. “Stop!” said Hilda desperately. “Oh, Fayte, don’t let’s be sentimental.” She jerked at her rein, and her horse reared free. “Let’s race, then!” she gasped, and dug her spur into the plunging animal. He bolted forward on the run. After a moment Fayte followed, laughing under his breath, stung more strongly to the pursuit by her reluctance, calling out, “All right. It’s a race. You know what the stake is—and I’m bound to win!”