“I wonder,” he said to himself, “I wonder how it would have been if _I_ had died and Barbara lived.” The thought of another man in his place came up. “Well, I’d have wished it.” And, presently, when he went up to bed, his mind was so engrossed that, for the first time since She had gone, he forgot to take his nightly look at the picture in the round locket. The next morning he and Dorothy rode again. It proved a less entertaining ride than the other. For she was unusually silent, even distrait, and, Austin thought, rather sad. They went beyond Arroyo, as before, and passed the ranch where Ned Heaton was staying. But they did not see him, and as the sun had grown unpleasantly warm by that time, they headed their horses back. The wistfulness of Dorothy’s eyes, and the little droop at the corners of her pretty mouth, touched Austin considerably. “We should have started earlier,” he said, and, “I’m afraid you’ve overdone. Sha’n’t we rest awhile at the creek?” But she was hungry, she declared, and gave her horse a sharp cut with her quirt to put him into a gallop. Austin kept alongside, feeling somewhat contrite. When they reached the house, he helped her dismount with marked care, and anxiously followed her to the veranda. There she left him, and he did not see her again till dinner, which fact kept him waiting about all day, not a little worried. After dinner, they walked together in the cool. Somehow, Austin came to help her occasionally, taking her by the arm, for the road was gravelled and her slippers were thin. Again she was quiet; again, her eyes were sad, and glistened with what seemed to him to be unshed tears. He was very gentle with her, and won a wan smile now and then, or a quick, grateful look. When their walk was over, and Dorothy had said good-night, Mrs. Thorburn came to sit beside Austin, under the rose-covered pergola. Once more she laid her hand upon his arm, and again her speech was full of friendly interest and sympathy, leading, at last, to the subject of a change in Austin’s mode of life, and then--to marriage. There could be no doubt as to her meaning. She admired and respected him. His loyalty to his dead wife was, to her, a sure sign that he would make a loyal husband to a new one. And Dorothy felt so, too. Later, he held a conference with himself--and felt just a trifle disappointed at the thought that Mrs. Thorburn was descending to match-making. “Perhaps I would be happier, though,” he said to himself, “and more contented. But--Dorothy is twenty.” Was there not too wide a gap between their ages? He had always held that youth naturally turned to youth for happiness; he had always strongly disapproved of the marriage of May with December, pointing out that such a union never took place when December was poor. But--was forty December? On the other hand, he was not poor.