She pretended to be interested in the pony, and stroked its mane with a hand that trembled, delaying to move in the hope that she might be mistaken in her fears and that Pickett would go away. But Pickett did not move. Glancing at him furtively, she saw that the grin was still on his face and that he was watching her narrowly. Then, finding that he seemed determined to stay, she pretended unconcern and faced him, meeting his gaze fearlessly. "Is there something that you wanted to talk to me about, Pickett?" she questioned. "Yes, ma'am," he said respectfully, though his voice seemed slightly hoarse, "I've got a letter here which I want you to read to me--I just can't sorta make out the writin'." She almost sighed with relief. Leaving the stall she went to Pickett's side and took from his hand a paper that he held out to her. And now, in her relief over her discovery that his intentions were not evil, it suddenly dawned on her that she had forgotten that the door was closed. "It is dark here," she said; "open the door, please." Instead of answering, he seized the hand holding the paper, and with a swift pull tried to draw her toward him. But her muscles had been tensed with the second fear that had taken possession of her, and she resisted--almost broke away from him. His fingers slipped from her wrist, the nails scratching the flesh deeply, and she sprang toward the door. But he was upon her instantly, his arms around her, pinning her own to her sides, and then he squeezed her to him, so tightly that the breath almost left her body, and kissed her three or four times full on the lips. Then, still holding her, and looking in her eyes with an expression that filled her with horror, he said huskily: "Lord, but you're a hummer!" Then, as though that were the limit of his intentions, he released her, laughed mirthlessly and threw the door open. She had spoken no word during the attack. She made no sound now, as she went toward the house, her face ashen, her breath coming in great gasps. But a few minutes later she was in her room in the ranchhouse, on her bed, her face in the pillow, sobbing out the story of the attack to Aunt Martha, whose wrinkled face grew gray with emotion as she listened. Masten came in an hour later. Ruth was in a chair in the sitting-room, looking very white. Aunt Martha was standing beside her. "Why, what has happened?" Masten took a few steps and stood in front of her, looking down at her. "Aunty will tell you." Ruth hid her face in her hands and cried softly. Aunt Martha led the way into the kitchen, Masten following. Before he reached the door he looked back at Ruth, and a slight smile, almost a sneer, crossed his face. But when he turned to Aunt Martha, in the kitchen, his eyes were alight with well simulated curiosity. "Well?" he said, questioningly.