"I must play the _ingenue_ part for which I am costumed," she thought. "Mrs. Kingdon told me," she said gently, "that the boys had so few opportunities for partners, I must divide my dances equally." "There's a party of tourists--teachers--at Westcott's. I've asked them over. The boys can dance with them." "Well," she assented graciously, "I'll just dance with Betty and Francis and Billy--" "And me," he finished. "Thank you. I didn't know that you danced." In the dance hall she looked eagerly about, hoping that Jo might have been invited, but she was disappointed. "I am not dancing," she thought, when Kurt was guiding her over the floor. "I am just being deliciously carried about. It's very restful, but not exhilarating. Oh, Jo, where art thou? It was like drinking champagne to dance with you, but I suppose continuous champagne is bad for one." Later that night when she was taking off her dancing slippers her thoughts were still of the man with whom she had danced so many times. "He's kind and good and strong--a suppressed strength. He looks passion-proof; but if he ever falls in love! And what a triumph for a thief to capture an adamantine heart! But I don't want that kind--nor any kind." Down in the bunkhouse, Kurt was recalling the feel of her little hand that had left a trail like fire upon his arm and had filled him with a sensation of ecstasy. A new divine sweetness seemed born into the air. He looked out of his window up into a star-flecked sky and renewed his old vow of allegiance to The Woman. CHAPTER VII The next day Francis carried out his cherished intention of being a "bit bad," and in violation of orders, surreptitiously mounted a "real horse" instead of his well-behaved little pony, and set out on adventure bound. The horse, surprised at his burden, cantered casually along at first; then, resenting the intrusion, began to toss his head, snort and curvet about. The lad, a little frightened but game, kept his seat and the horse, seemingly ashamed to trifle longer with so small a foe, resumed his easy canter, though at a swifter pace than Francis was wont to ride. All might have ended well, had not Kurt in his home-made car suddenly sounded a blatant horn as he came around a curve. To his vision was disclosed a plunging horse and a small, fair-haired atom of a boy clinging to his neck. There was a forward plunge and the horse thundered on like mad along a narrow slant of road with never a slackening of speed. Kurt cranked up for pursuit, but his crude craft was not built on speed lines, and he saw the distance fast eaten up between him and the frenzied horse. Then, with tiger swiftness, Kingdon's car, a motor of make, passed him, Gene at the wheel, Pen beside him. The sight gave him no hope. They could doubtless overtake the horse, but they could not stop him and if they could, the boy would be thrown. Pen's clear young voice came like a clarion call: "Stick tight, Francis! Burr-tight! We'll get you all right."