“Oh, nothing. Aunt Phoebe called me back, and gave me a bottle of cream, is all. I shall have to carry it in my hand, I suppose.” She twitched her shoulders, and started Huckleberry off again. She had called him Grant, instead of the formal Mr. Imsen she had heretofore clung to, and he had not seemed to notice it even. He mounted with perfectly maddening deliberation, but for all that he overtook her before she had gone farther than a few rods, and he pulled up beside her with a decision which caused Huckleberry to stop also; Huckleberry, it must be confessed, was never known to show any reluctance in that direction when his head was turned away from home. He stood perfectly still while Good Indian reached out a hand. “I'll carry it--I'm more used to packing bottles,” he announced gravely. “Oh, but if you must carry it in your hand, I wouldn't dream of--” She was holding fast the bottle, and trying to wear her Christmas-angel look. Good Indian laid hold of the flask, and they stood there stubbornly eying each other. “I thought you wanted me to carry it,” he said at last, pulling harder. “I merely asked if you had an empty pocket.” Evadna clung the tighter. “Now, what's the use--” “Just what I was thinking!” Evadna was so impolite as to interrupt him. Good Indian was not skilled in the management of women, but he knew horses, and to his decision he added an amendment. Instinctively he followed the method taught him by experience, and when he fancied he saw in her eyes a sign of weakening, he followed up the advantage he had gained. “Let go--because I'm going to have it anyway, now,” he said quietly, and took the flask gently from her hands. Then he smiled at her for yielding, and his smile was a revelation to the girl, and brought the blood surging up to her face. She rode meekly beside him at the pace he himself set--which was not rapid, by any means. He watched her with quick, sidelong glances, and wondered whether he would dare say what he wanted to say--or at least a part of it. She was gazing with a good deal of perseverance at the trail, down the windings of which the others could be seen now and then galloping through the dust, so that their progress was marked always by a smothering cloud of gray. Then she looked at Grant unexpectedly, met one of his sharp glances, and flushed hotly again. “How about this business of hating each other, and not speaking except to please Aunt Phoebe?” he demanded, with a suddenness which startled himself. He had been thinking it, but he hadn't intended to say it until the words spoke themselves. “Are we supposed to keep on acting the fool indefinitely?” “I was not aware that I, at least, was acting the fool,” she retorted, with a washed-out primness.