“Certainly not on your account,” she said, coldly, “or for any reason that you will understand. Go; I will ride home alone.” “I used to think you were in love with him, and so did everybody else,” persisted he; “but it can’t be him. Is it that young jackanapes, Rupert Gray? He’s in love with you, but I didn’t suppose you to be in love with a boy like that.” Ruth’s face flamed with indignation. “By what right do you question me as to such things? Go, I will ride home alone.” She drew her horse back and away from him. The young man hesitated for a moment, but Ruth was inexorable. “If you please—go!” she said, coldly, pointing down the road. “Well, I will go,” he burst out, angrily. “But Rupert Gray and the whole set of ’em had better look out for me,” and with a growl of rage, he struck his horse and galloped away. Miss Welch rode on alone, her heart moved by conflicting emotions—indignation, apprehension—and yet others, deeper than these. What right had this man to treat her so? She flushed again with indignation as she thought of his insolence. It seemed to her almost an insult to have been addressed by him. She went over in her mind her conduct toward him. There never was one thing of which he could have a right to complain. Of this she was sure. It could not be otherwise, for she had never for a moment been free from a consciousness of antipathy to him. Then she went over her present situation, the situation of her father and mother, now so lonely and cut off from everyone. The cool, still woods, the deserted road, the far-reaching silence, were such as to inspire loneliness and sadness, and Ruth was on the verge of tears when the gallop of a horse came to her from ahead. She wondered if it could be Wash Still returning, and a momentary wave of apprehension swept over her. The next instant Rupert Gray cantered in sight. Ruth’s first thought was one of relief, the next was that she ought to be cool to him. But as the boy galloped up to her, his young face glowing with pleasure, and reined in his horse, all her intended formality disappeared, and she returned his greeting cordially. “Well, I am in luck,” he exclaimed. “Mayn’t I ride home with you?” He had assumed her consent, and turned his horse without waiting for it. “I am afraid you may be going somewhere and I may detain you.” “No, indeed; I am my own master,” he said, with a toss of his head. “Besides, I don’t like you to be riding so late all by yourself.” The imitation of Steve Allen’s protecting manner was so unmistakable that Ruth could not help smiling. “Oh! I’m not afraid. No one would interfere with me.”