It took her several more minutes to do it, and she was pretty well splashed, when at last, with the heavy net dragging from one hand and the rod in the other, she sprang down from the rock. Together we bent over the fish. “A four-pounder, if he is an ounce,” said I. “I congratulate you, Miss Colton.” “Poor thing,” she mused. “I am almost sorry he did not get away. He IS a beauty, isn't he! Now I am ready to go home.” That journey home was a strange experience to me. She rode Don and bore the lunch basket and the net before her on the saddle. I walked alongside, carrying the rod, boots, and the fish in the otherwise empty bait pail. The sunshine, streaming through the leaves of the arching boughs overhead, dappled the narrow, overgrown paths with shifting blotches of light and shadow. Around us was the deep, living green of the woods, the songs of birds, the chatter of red squirrels, and the scent of wild honeysuckle. And as we moved onward we talked--that is, she did most of the talking and I listened. Yet I must have talked more than I knew, because I remember expressing opinions concerning books and operas and pictures, subjects I had not discussed for years except occasionally with Mother, and then only because she was still interested in them. I seemed, somehow, to have become a different, a younger man, under the influence of these few hours with the girl I had professed to hate so cordially. Our companionship--perfectly meaningless as it was, the mere caprice of an idle day on her part--had rejuvenated me. During that homeward walk I forgot myself entirely, forgot that I was Ros Paine, the country loafer; forgot, too, that she was the only child of the city millionaire, that we had, or could have, nothing in common. She, also, seemed to forget, and we chatted together as unconsciously and easily as if we had known each other all our lives. Yet it may be that her part in the conversation was not altogether without a purpose. She led me to speak of Denboro and its people, of how they lived, and of the old days of sailing ships and deep sea skippers. George Taylor's name was mentioned and I praised him highly, telling of his rise from poor boy to successful man, as we rated success locally. “He manages that bank well,” I declared. “Everyone says so. And, from what I have seen of his management, I know it to be true.” “How do you know?” she asked. “Because I have had some experience in banking myself. I--” I stopped short. My tongue was running away with me. She did not ask the question which I dreaded and expected. Instead she said, looking down at me: “You are a loyal friend, aren't you, Mr. Paine.” “I have reason to be loyal to George,” I answered, with feeling. “Are you as loyal to yourself?” I looked up at her in surprise. “What do you mean?” I asked.