“Life. It is life that ails me,” he muttered, then laughed as if ashamed of his quick outburst. “I’ve been tramping the moors since daybreak, Nance,” he went on, in a matter-of-fact voice, “and all for three brace of grouse. You know how much powder goes to every bird I kill.” “But, Rupert, why are you so bitter?” “Because I’m your fool,” he broke in, with easy irony. “Oh, they think I do not know! They call me the scholar--or the dreamer--or any other name--but we know what they mean, Nance.” The girl’s face was grave and puzzled. Through all the years they had known each other, he and she, he had seldom shown her a glimpse of this passionate rebellion against the world that hemmed him in. And it was true--pitiably true. She had seen men smile good-naturedly when his name was spoken--good-naturedly, because all men liked him in some affectionate, unquestioning way--had heard them ask each other what the Royds had done in times past to deserve such ill-luck as this heir, who was fit only for the cloisters where scholars walked apart and read old tomes. And yet, for some odd reason, she liked him better for the outburst. Here on his own moors, with the tiredness in his face and the ring of courage in his voice, she saw the manhood in him. “Rupert,” she said, glancing backward, and laughing to hide her stress of feeling. “You’ve lost me a race to-day.” “Very likely,” he said, yielding still to his evil humour. “I was always in the way, Nance. My lady mother told me as much, no longer ago than yesterday. This race of yours?” he added, tired of himself, tired of the comrade moor, weary even of Nance Demaine, who was his first love and who would likely, if he died in his bed at ninety, be his last. She glanced over her shoulder again, and saw two horsemen cantering half a mile away through the crimson sunset-glow. “It was a good wager, Rupert, and you’ve spoilt it. The hunt was all amiss to-day--whenever we found a fox, we lost him after a mile or two--and Will Underwood and your brother, as we rode home----” “My brother, and Will Underwood--yes. They hunt in couples always.” “Be patient, Rupert! Your temper is on edge. I’ve never known it fail you until to-day.” “Fools are not supposed to show temper,” he put in dryly. “It is only wise men who’re allowed to ride their humours on a loose rein. So you had a wager, Nance?” “Yes. We had had no real gallop; so, coming home, Maurice said that he would give me a fair start--as far as Intake Farm--and the first home to father’s house should----” She halted, ashamed, somehow, of Rupert’s steady glance. “And the wager?”