Miss Pace, with Azalea and Carin, had ridden on ahead as fast as they could push their horses, in order to send the McEvoy wagon to the point where the rough trail met the wagon road. They had no fear of losing their way, for the marks their horses had made the previous day were their sure guide. So if they were anxious, it was not for themselves. Their fear was for the two burden-bearers. Azalea had seen from the first that Keefe was finding the task a very difficult one. He was not strong in the way her good Haystack was, and he never would be. She thought of his delicate, long, “clever” hands, that could handle the sketching pencil or the painter’s brush so deftly, of all his quick, kind, charming ways, and wondered again what the story could be that he wanted to tell her, and how it was that he seemed so alone in the world. The day was proving itself a surprisingly hot one for that altitude. Azalea was glad to remember the canteens of cold water that the men carried with them, and hoped Haystack would tell Keefe to put green leaves in his hat to keep his head cool. She wondered if there was danger of sunstroke away up on the mountains and wanted to ask Miss Pace, but for some reason didn’t quite like to. Too much anxiety about Keefe might bring out Carin’s little teasing smile. Anyway, it was no time for asking questions. She urged Paprika ahead of the others, and rode him over the stubble, through the bushes, across the fords, until at last she reached the well-traveled road. Here she watered him lightly, and breathed him for a few minutes. Then she flicked the reins on his neck. “Go home, pony,” she called sharply. Paprika gave a little sniff as much as to say that he had supposed that was what he _was_ doing, and reaching out with his tough little legs, he fairly flew over the ground. Carin set her pretty Mustard at the same pace. The ponies had been bred together and were equally matched, yet to-day Mustard did not seem quite the equal of Paprika, and Mustard’s mistress wondered why. But Aunt Zillah knew. The difference lay, not in the ponies, but in the riders. It was Azalea whose aching sympathy with those she had left behind her, diffused itself through the heart and lungs and legs of her staunch little mount, giving him a speed he seldom had known before. Indeed, it was an all but fainting pony that was drawn up at last by the McEvoy steps. Azalea had slipped from her saddle as the little creature swayed, and guessing at his trouble, had snatched up a pail of water which stood upon the house steps and dashed it over his face. Miles McEvoy, placidly smoking his pipe in the shade of a sweet gum tree, came to her aid, but she waved him away. “Hitch the horses to the wagon,” she said, “and please ask Mrs. McEvoy to come here.”