The young miner laughed softly. If he had shown any unwillingness they would have pushed their way in. His urbanity had disarmed them. "They're not really bad men, you know--just think they are," he explained casually. "I'm afraid of them. I don't trust them," Joyce shuddered. "Well, I trust them while they're under my eye. The trouble with men of that stripe is that they're yellow. A game man gives you a fighting chance, but fellows of this sort hit while you're not looking. But you needn't worry. They're real tame citizens this morning." "Yes, they looked tame," Moya answered dryly. "So tame I'm sure they'd like to crucify you." "I daresay they would, but in this world a man can't get everything he would like. I've wanted two or three pleasures myself that I didn't get." His gaze happened to turn toward Joyce as he was speaking. He had been thinking of nothing definite, but at the meeting of their eyes something flashed into birth and passed from one to the other like an electric current. Jack knew now something that he wanted, but he did not admit that he could not get it. If she cared for him--and what else had her eyes told him in the golden glow of that electric moment?--a hundred Verinders and Lady Farquhar could not keep them apart. His heart sang jubilantly. He rose abruptly and left the room because he was afraid he could not veil his feeling. Joyce smiled happily. "Where is he going?" she asked innocently. Moya looked at her and then turned her eyes away. She had understood the significance of what she had seen and a door in her heart that had been open for weeks clanged shut. "I don't know, unless to get the horses," she said quietly. A few minutes later he returned, leading the animals. From the door of the shaft-house the Cornishmen watched them mount and ride away. The men smoked in sullen silence. [Illustration: THEY RODE THROUGH A WORLD SHOT TO THE CORE WITH SUNLIGHT. THE SNOW SPARKLED AND GLEAMED WITH IT. (p. 177)] Before they had ridden a hundred yards Joyce was in gay talk with Kilmeny. She had forgotten the very existence of the miners. But Moya did not forget. She had seen the expression of their faces as the horses had passed. If a chance ever offered itself they would have their revenge. It was a day winnowed from a lifetime of ordinary ones. They rode through a world shot to the core with sunlight. The snow sparkled and gleamed with it. The foliage of the cottonwoods, which already had shaken much of their white coat to the ground, reflected it in greens and golds and russets merged to a note of perfect harmony by the Great Artist. Though the crispness of early winter was in the air, their nostrils drew in the fragrance of October, the faint wafted perfume of dying summer.