"I don't know," came the interested voice from the house. "Maybe the Queen of Sheba." "Then," George said, "she'd have cried her eyes out if she had seen Old Planter's girl." The elder Morton took his pipe from his mouth. "Young men like you," he said, slowly, "haven't any business looking at girls like Old Planter's daughter." George laughed carelessly. "Even a cat can look at a queen." And during the weeks that followed he did look, too persistently, never dreaming where his enthusiasm was leading him. Occasionally he would bring her brother's horse around with hers or her father's. At such times he would watch them ride away with a keen disappointment, as if he had been excluded from a pleasure that had become his right. Lambert, however, was away a good deal, and Old Planter that summer fought rheumatic attacks, which he called gout, so that Sylvia, for the most part, rode alone through remote bridle-paths with George at her heels like a well-trained animal. He knew he could not alter that all at once; she would have it no other way. She only spoke to him, really, about the condition of the horses, or the weather--never a word conceivably personal; and every day he looked at her more personally, let his imagination, without knowing it, stray too far. At first he merely enjoyed being with her; then he appreciated that a sense of intimacy had grown upon him, and he was troubled that she did not reciprocate, that their extended companionship had not diminished at all the appalling distance dividing them. There was something, moreover, beyond her beauty to stimulate his interest. She appeared not to know fear, and once or twice he ventured to reprove her, enjoying her angry reactions. She even came to the stables, urging him to let her ride horses that he knew were not safe. "But you ride them," she would persist. "When I find a horse I can't ride, Miss Sylvia, I guess I'll have to take up a new line. If your father would come and say it's all right----" Even then he failed to grasp the fact that he guarded her for his own sake rather more than for her father's. He nearly interfered when he heard her cry to her brother as they started off one morning: "I'm going to ride harder from now on, Lambert. I've got to get fit for next winter. Coming out will take a lot of doing." "If she rides any harder," he muttered, "she'll break her silly neck." It angered him that she never spoke to him in that voice, with that easy manner. Perhaps his eagerness to be near her had led her to undervalue him. Somehow he would change all that, and he wanted her to stop calling him "Morton," as if he had been an ordinary groom, or an animal, but he would have to go slowly. Although he didn't realize the great fact then, he did know that he shrank from attempting anything that would take her away from him. It was her harder riding, indeed, that opened his eyes, that ushered in the revolution.