John placed his own hand over hers. She felt it trembling and looked down at him in surprise, her brown eyes narrowing a little as they met his. “I thought――I feared――――!” He broke off with a gulp, his white face working convulsively. Margaret’s eyes dropped, and the colour, which had begun to steal back into her cheeks, fled again quickly. She withdrew her hands slowly from under his and her voice was uncertain. “I’m sorry I gave you both such a fright.” “Shucks!” cried Phillip, gazing wrathfully at Cardinal; “it wasn’t your fault! I’ll kill this brute when I get him home!” “No, Phil, you mustn’t hurt Cardinal. It wasn’t his fault either. He was more scared than any of us. It was that awful engine.” “Your gloves are torn!” exclaimed John. She held them up smilingly; each was ripped up the palm. “Let me take them off,” he begged. She hesitated and then held them down. John peeled them off one after the other, leaving bare two red and swollen hands. “The brute!” he muttered, looking at them commiseratingly. Margaret tried to withdraw them, but he held them fast. “Are they hurt?” he asked. “No; but my hair――――” He bent over, and, ere Margaret knew what he was doing, pressed both palms to his lips. “Poor little hands!” he said softly. Margaret gave a little gasp and tore them away. With crimson cheeks and averted head she strove to fix her hair. John turned to Phillip. If the latter had seen he gave no evidence of the fact, but was examining the broken rein. “Your sister must take my horse the rest of the way,” John said. “All right; and you can have Winchester.” “No,” said John grimly; “I want the other. I like him. I think we shall get on finely together.” He stroked Cardinal’s quivering muzzle. “You’d like me to ride you back, wouldn’t you, you nice, sensible horsie?” he muttered. “You wouldn’t run away with me, would you? You don’t want your damned neck broken, do you? I’d like to own you for about ten minutes, you dear thing!” Phillip laughed. “I don’t reckon I’ll trust him to you, John. You take Winchester.” “You may both keep your own horses,” interrupted Margaret. “I shall ride Cardinal myself.” “Nonsense,” cried Phillip. “I shall; he is all right now, Phil; he’s tired to death.” She gathered up the reins with a little determined smile. “Pardon me, Miss Ryerson, for interfering,” said John, “but I don’t think Cardinal can be trusted. He’s awfully nervous. I don’t think you ought to stay on him.” Their eyes met. John’s were steady and Margaret’s gleamed with the light of battle. Her face was pale and there was a set smile about the mouth. “Thank you for your thoughtfulness, Mr. North,” she answered calmly, “but I don’t think there is any danger now. Mount, gentlemen!” John gazed at her with annoyance and admiration mingled. Phillip hesitated doubtfully with his foot in the stirrup. “She’s splendid,” thought John, “but she ought to be pulled out of that saddle and kissed until she behaves!”