“I wish I might know just what element made it delightful. I wish--” “I scarcely think it has been any particular element,” she broke in, trying desperately to stave off what she felt in his tone. “I love the wild, where I can ride, and ride, and never meet a human being--where I can dream and dally and feast my eyes on a landscape man has not touched. I have lived most of my life in New York, and I love nature so well that I'm inclined to be jealous of her. I want her left free to work out all her whims in her own way. She has a keen sense of humor, I think. The way she modeled some of these hills proves that she loves her little jokes. I have seen where she cut deep, fearsome gashes, with sides precipitous, as though she had some priceless treasure hidden away in the deep, where man cannot despoil it. And if you plot and plan, and try very hard, you may reach the bottom at last and find the treasure--nothing. Or, perhaps, a tiny little stream, as jealously guarded as though each drop were priceless.” Sir Richmond rode for a few minutes in silence. When he spoke, it was abruptly. “And is that all? Is there nothing to this delightful summer, after all, but your hills?” “Oh, of course, I--it has all been delightful. I shall hate to go back home, I think.” Beatrice was a bit startled to find just how much she would hate to go back and wrap herself once more in the conventions of society life. For the first time since she could remember, she wanted her world to stand still. Sir Redmond went doggedly to the point he had in mind and heart. “I hoped, Beatrice, you would count me, too. I've tried to be patient. You know, don't you, that I love you?” “You've certainly told me often enough,” she retorted, in a miserable attempt at her old manner. “And you've put me off, and laughed at me, and did everything under heaven but answer me fairly. And I've acted the fool, no doubt. I know it. I've no courage before a woman. A curl of your lip, and I was ready to cut and run. But I can't go on this way forever--I've got to know. I wish I could talk as easy as I can fight; I'd have settled the thing long ago. Where other men can plead their cause, I can say just the one thing--I love you, Beatrice. When I saw you first, in the carriage I loved you then. You had some fur--brown fur--snuggled under your chin, and the pink of your cheeks, and your dear, brown eyes shining and smiling above--Good God! I've always loved you! From the beginning of the world, I think! I'd be good to you, Beatrice, and I believe I could make you happy--if you give me the chance.” Something in Beatrice's throat ached cruelly. It was the truth, and she knew it. He did love her, and the love of a brave man is not a thing to be thrust lightly aside. But it demanded such a lot in return! More, perhaps, than she could give. A love like that--a love that gives everything--demands everything in return. Anything less insults it.