“Almost at my door,” he replied, moving quietly to a kind of cupboard at the other side of the room and pouring some brandy into a glass. “You must drink this; your clothing is soaked through and I have nothing dry to offer you, but if you can, come to the fire.” Diana took the liquor and drank it obediently, unconsciously yielding to the calm authority of his manner. Then she tried to rise, but once on her feet, staggered, and would have fallen but for his arm. He caught her and held her erect a moment, then gathered her up without a word, and carried her to a seat by the little open stove into which he had already thrown some wood. Diana sank into his old armchair with crimson cheeks. She was half angry, half amused; he was treating her like an injured child, and with as little heed of her grand-dame manners as if she had been six years old. “I have telephoned to Dr. Cheyney,” he said simply, “but, of course, this storm will delay him.” “I am not ill,” Diana protested. “I am not even badly hurt; my horse ran away, and I--I think I sprained my ankle.” “You were clinging to the fence,” Trench said, without apparent emotion, “and you fainted when I lifted you.” She sickened at the memory, yet was woman enough to resent the man’s indifference. “I’m sorry you ’phoned for poor old Dr. Cheyney,” she said stiffly; “please ’phone to my people to send for me.” “I tried,” he replied, undisturbed by her hauteur, “but the storm must have interfered. I can’t get them, and now I can’t get Dr. Cheyney.” “How long was I unconscious?” she asked quickly, trying to piece together her recovery and all that he had done. “Ten minutes,” he answered. “I saw the horse going by riderless and went out to look. It seemed a long time before I saw you coming and carried you into the shop. I thought you were not coming to, and you were so soaked with water that I had lifted you to bring you to the fire when you recovered.” “I hope Jerry got home,” she said thoughtfully. “It was my folly; I saw how black the clouds were, and I ought to have gone home.” Trench stooped for more wood and fed the fire, the glow lighting up his face again. “Where were you?” he asked simply, and then “I beg your pardon--” “I was up the trail,” she said quietly. “I stayed too long. It was beautiful; all the young things are budding. I dismounted to gather some wild honeysuckle--and it is gone!” For the first time his eyes met hers with a glow of understanding. “Did you notice the turn above the river?” he asked, still feeding the fire. She smiled reluctantly. “How white the cucumber is,” she answered, “and did you see the red tips of the maples? How glossy the new green leaves look!” “There is a place there, where the old hickory fell, where you can see the orchard and that low meadow by the lane--” His face was almost boyish, eager for sympathy, awakened, changed. “It is beautiful,” Diana replied, nodding, “and one hears the Bob White there.”