The long summer day dragged itself out for centuries; but at last there was tea on the lawn, and Miriam appeared. She was in the saddle before he could offer to help, with the clean spring of the child who mounted the pony for the Thirty-Mile-Ride. The day held mercilessly, though Georgie got down thrice to look for imaginary stones in Rufus’s foot. One cannot say even simple things in broad light, and this that Georgie meditated was not simple. So he spoke seldom, and Miriam was divided between relief and scorn. It annoyed her that the great hulking thing should know she had written the words of the song overnight; for though a maiden may sing her most secret fancies aloud, she does not care to have them trampled over by the male Philistine. They rode into the little red-brick street of Bassett, and Georgie made untold fuss over the disposition of that duck. It must go in just such a package, and be fastened to the saddle in just such a manner, though eight o’clock had struck and they were miles from dinner. “We must be quick!” said Miriam, bored and angry. “There’s no great hurry; but we can cut over Dowhead Down, and let ’em out on the grass. That will save us half an hour.” The horses capered on the short, sweet-smelling turf, and the delaying shadows gathered in the valley as they cantered over the great dun down that overhangs Bassett and the Western coaching-road. Insensibly the pace quickened without thought of mole-hills; Rufus, gentleman that he was, waiting on Miriam’s Dandy till they should have cleared the rise. Then down the two-mile slope they raced together, the wind whistling in their ears, to the steady throb of eight hoofs and the light click-click of the shifting bits. “Oh, that was glorious!” Miriam cried, reining in. “Dandy and I are old friends, but I don’t think we’ve ever gone better together.” “No; but you’ve gone quicker, once or twice.” “Really? When?” Georgie moistened his lips. “Don’t you remember the Thirty-Mile-Ride—with me—when ‘They’ were after us—on the beach-road, with the sea to the left—going toward the lamp-post on the downs?” The girl gasped. “What—what do you mean?” she said hysterically. “The Thirty-Mile-Ride, and—and all the rest of it.” “You mean—? I didn’t sing anything about the Thirty-Mile-Ride. I know I didn’t. I have never told a living soul.’” “You told about Policeman Day, and the lamp at the top of the downs, and the City of Sleep. It all joins on, you know—it’s the same country—and it was easy enough to see where you had been.” “Good God!—It joins on—of course it does; but—I have been—you have been—Oh, let’s walk, please, or I shall fall off!” Georgie ranged alongside, and laid a hand that shook below her bridle-hand, pulling Dandy into a walk. Miriam was sobbing as he had seen a man sob under the touch of the bullet. “It’s all right—it’s all right,” he whispered feebly. “Only—only it’s true, you know.” “True! Am I mad?”