“I?” said Betty, disdainfully. “Why, what have I to do with them?” “With my fancies? nothing--so help me God--nothing.” “I am glad to hear it,” she replied quietly, stroking her horse. Her cheeks were glowing and she let the overhanging branches screen her face. As they rode on silently they heard the rustling of the leaves beneath the horses' feet, and the soft wind playing through the forest. A chain of lights and shadows ran before them into the misty purple of the distance, where the dim trees went up like gothic spires. Betty's hands were trembling, but fearing the stillness, she spoke in a careless voice. “When do you go back to college?” she inquired politely. “In two days--but it's all the same to you, I dare say.” “Indeed it isn't. I shall be very sorry.” “You needn't lie to me,” he returned irritably. “I beg your pardon, but a lie is a lie, you know.” “So I suppose, but I wasn't lying--I shall be very sorry.” A fiery maple branch fell between them, and he impatiently thrust it aside. “When you treat me like this you raise the devil in me,” he said angrily. “As I told you before, Betty, when I'm not Lightfoot I'm Montjoy--it may be this that makes you plague me so.” “O Dan, Dan!” she laughed, but in a moment added gravely: “When you're neither Lightfoot nor Montjoy, you're just yourself, and it's then, after all, that I like you best. Shall we turn now?” She wheeled her horse about on the rustling leaves, and they started toward the sunset light shining far up the road. “When you like me best,” said Dan, passionately. “Betty, when is that?” His ardent look was on her face, and she, defying her fears, met it with her beaming eyes. “When you're just yourself, Dan,” she answered and galloped on. Her lips were smiling, but there was a prayer in her heart, for it cried, “Dear God, let him love me, let him love me.” VIII BETTY'S UNBELIEF “Dear God, let him love me,” she prayed again in the cool twilight of her chamber. Before the open window she put her hands to her burning cheeks and felt the wind trickle between her quivering fingers. Her heart fluttered like a bird and her blood went in little tremours through her veins. For a single instant she seemed to feel the passage of the earth through space. “Oh, let him love me! let him love me!” she cried upon her knees. When Virginia came in she rose and turned to her with the brightness of tears on her lashes. “Do you want me to help you, dear?” she asked, gently. “Oh, I'm all dressed,” answered Virginia, coming toward her. She held a lamp in her hand, and the light fell over her girlish figure in its muslin gown. “You are so late, Betty,” she added, stopping before the bureau. “Were you by yourself?” “Not all the way,” replied Betty, slowly. “Who was with you? Champe?” “No, not Champe--Dan,” said Betty, stooping to unfasten her boots. Virginia was pinning a red verbena in her hair, and she turned to catch a side view of her face.