“There might be something deep in,” he answered, making his investigation all over again. “But I don’t see any blood.” (What a fine back he has! thought Sylvia.) He stood up. “Let me see his mouth,” he said. “Are you sure you’ve not held him too tight?” “I am used to horses,” was her reply. “Some of them have peculiarities,” he remarked. “Possibly the saddle has rubbed——” “No, no,” answered Sylvia, in haste, as he made a move to lift the cloth. It was always hard for her to keep from laughing for long; and there was something so comical in his gravity. Then too, something desperate must be done, for presently he would mount and ride away. “There’s surely no stone in his foot,” he declared. Whereat Sylvia broke into one of her radiant smiles. “Perhaps,” she said, “it’s in _your_ horse’s foot!” He looked puzzled. “Don’t you see?” she laughed. “Something _must_ be wrong—or you couldn’t be here talking to me!” But he still looked bewildered. “Dear me, what a man!” thought she. A color was beginning to mount in his cheeks. Perhaps he was going to be offended! Clearly, with such a man one’s cue was frankness. So her tone changed suddenly. “Are you Mr. Shirley?” she asked. “Yes,” he said. “And do you know who I am?” “Yes, Miss Castleman.” “Our families are old friends, you know.” “Yes, I know it.” “And then, tell me—” She paused. “Honestly!” “Why—yes.” “I’ve been honest and told you—I’m not really worried about my horse. Now you be honest and say why you rode out this morning.” He waited before replying, studying her face—not boldly, but gravely. “I think, Miss Castleman, that it would be better if I did not.” Then it was Sylvia’s turn to study. Was it a rebuke? Had he not come out on her account at all? Or was it still the ghost of his father’s prison-suit? He did not help her with another word. (I can hear Frank’s laugh as he told me about this episode. “We silent fellows have such an advantage! We just wait and let people imagine things!”) Sylvia’s voice fell low. “Mr. Shirley, you have me at a great disadvantage.” And as she said this she gazed at him with the wonderful red-brown eyes, wide open, childlike. So far there had never been a man who could resist the spell of those eyes. Would this man be able? The busy little brain behind them was watching every sign. “I don’t understand,” he replied; and she took up the words: “It is _I_ who don’t understand. And I dare not ask you to explain!” She was terrified at this temerity; and yet she must press on—there was no other way. She saw gates opening before her—gates into wonderland!