The wonder is not that the young are inspired to such idealistic heights; the wonder comes to the old and sophisticated. Men and women are born poets--women more often than men. And poets are a simple people living outside themselves, in touch with the singing stars. Only as they turn wise and think of themselves do they grow blunt and blind and are forced to grope their way on the surface of the earth. Roxie could allow her thoughts to wander at will on that ride up the mountain-side. She could permit them to take flight where they would. She had given all that she had to give and so was entitled to take all that remained for her to take. There was no need of repressions. She had won the complete freedom that only love can give. So she thought of Allston as she chose--calling him Ned as in her very secret heart she had long called him. Aye, she could kiss his hair now and his white forehead and his lips. Throwing back her head, the rain beat down upon her face and each drop was like a kiss back from him. There were thousands of them, but not too many. How her heart leaped at the thought! How it sang! A thousand, ten thousand were not enough to satisfy her hungry heart. A man may carry a lady off on horseback without carrying her heart at all. A man may take a lady into the black forest and have none of the best of her. A man may shut a lady up in the fastness of his shack and wonder what has become of her. Bud dimly realized that much an hour later. It did not discourage him, but it puzzled him. He had looked for protest and outcry and he was met by an uncanny silence. Once, when he tried to take her hand, he was warned off, but even then so quietly that he was dazed. At the end of another hour he was staring at her with a new eagerness and growing passion that might have made him dangerous--when the back door had swung open admitting the tempest. The presence of Ned Allston was in reality fraught with more tragic consequences to Roxie than to Childers. The latter had been thrown and tied, and that was the end of him. But Roxie had been set free--and that was not the end of her. She had been released from the end. She was forced to face a new fight--a fight made more intense by the leeway she had so recently given herself. It is one thing to stay within bounds and another to move out of bounds and return again. Allston in the last few hours had become more distinctly personal to her than before. He had stepped into reality: so much so that when he stood before her in the flesh she was half ashamed to face him. She remembered the rain and her upturned mouth. It was because of that she had allowed herself to speak of Wilmer. He had not denied the story Bud had told of what he saw in the cove. Then it was true. She was sitting on the floor, Turk fashion, and Allston was still in his chair studying her with his puzzled blue eyes. To herself she repeated over and over again the question she had asked of him, “What fer had he come?”