The young man had all he could do to conceal his amusement. Susan flushed deeply again, not because she saw his expression, for she was not looking at him, but because her remark seemed to her absurd and likely to rouse suspicion. "I suppose you came up here to see the view," said the man. He glanced round. "It _is_ pretty good. You're not visiting down Brooksburg way, by any chance?" "No," replied Susan, rather composedly and determined to change the subject. "What was that song I heard you singing?" "Oh--you heard, did you?" laughed he. "It's the Duke's song from 'Rigoletto.'" "That's an opera, isn't it--like 'Trovatore'?" "Yes--an Italian opera. Same author." "It's a beautiful song." It was evident that she longed to ask him to sing it. She felt at ease with him; he was so unaffected and simple, was one of those people who seem to be at home wherever they are. "Do you sing?" he inquired. "Not really," replied she. "Neither do I. So if you'll sing to me, I'll sing to you." Susan looked round in alarm. "Oh, dear, no--please don't," she cried. "Why not?" he asked curiously. "There isn't a soul about." "I know--but--really, you mustn't." "Very well," said he, seeing that her nervousness was not at all from being asked to sing. They sat quietly, she gazing off at the horizon, he fanning himself and studying her lovely young face. He was somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty-five and a close observer would have suspected him of an unusual amount of experience, even for a good-looking, expansive youth of that age. He broke the long silence. "I'm a newspaper man from Cincinnati. I'm on the _Commercial_ there. My name's Roderick Spenser. My father's Clayton Spenser, down at Brooksburg"--he pointed to the southeast--"beyond that hill there, on the river. I'm here on my vacation." And he halted, looking at her expectantly. It seemed to her that there was in courtesy no escape without a return biographical sketch. She hung her head, twisted her tapering fingers in her lap, and looked childishly embarrassed and unhappy. Another long silence; again he broke it. "You'll pardon my saying so, but--you're very young, aren't you?" "Not so--so _terribly_ young. I'm almost seventeen," replied she, glancing this way and that, as if thinking of flight. "You look like a child, yet you don't," he went on, and his frank, honest voice calmed her. "You've had some painful experience, I'd say." She nodded, her eyes down. A pause, then he: "Honest, now--aren't you--running away?" She lifted her eyes to his piteously. "Please don't ask me," she said. "I shouldn't think of it," replied he, with a gentleness in his persistence that made her feel still more like trusting him, "if it wasn't that----