MY DEAR MR. WEST: As you have inferred from the postmark I am back at Truesdale; we returned Wednesday. I have about despaired of seeing you here, at least of your own free will, so I have decided to kidnap you. Will you come to a coaching party Saturday afternoon--or rather a brake party? We shall start from our house, weather permitting, at four o'clock, and drive out to Oakwood, returning by moonlight. Please don't let any stupid business interfere with your coming down and having a jolly time. Cordially, KATHERINE PORTER. Harvey slowly folded the note and replaced it in his pocket. Then he spoke to Jim. “Mr. Weeks, will you need me to-morrow?” Jim looked up pleasantly. Since the recent issue of M. & T. stock, Jim's eyes had smiled almost continuously. “Guess not,” he replied. “Going away?” “Just over Sunday.” “You aren't going anywhere near Truesdale, are you?” “Why, yes.” Jim whirled around to his desk and rummaged through some pigeonholes. “I want to get word to a man down there,” he said,--“some fellow that Fox talks about, who has a good team to sell. I thought I had his card. Well, never mind, I'll call up Fox in the morning and get his name and address. Then if you have time”--Jim smiled--“you might talk with him and see what they are. Don't commit yourself; just size things up.” Harvey bowed. “I don't believe you need come around in the morning. I'll call you up or wire you. But don't lose any dinners on account of it.” The next morning Harvey went to Truesdale. The Oakwood Club House stands on a knoll some eight miles up the river from Truesdale. Giant elms shade the wide veranda, while others droop over the white macadam drive that swings steeply down to the bridge and vanishes in a grove of oak, hickory, and birch. If you stand on the steps and look west, you can see, through the immediate foliage, the Maiden County hills, their blue tops contrasting with the nearer green of the valley. To the left, an obtruding wing checks the view; on the right, leading straight down to the river, is a well-worn path. After dinner the party strolled up and down the veranda, gradually separating into couples. The twilight creeping down found Harvey and Miss Porter alone by the railing. She stood erect, looking out over the valley, her scarlet golf jacket thrown back, her hair disordered by the long ride and curling about her face. Harvey watched her in silence. He was glad that she was tall; he liked to meet her eyes without looking down. He had often tried to remember the color of those eyes. Presently she turned and looked at him. “They're gray,” he said, half to himself. “No,” she replied; “sometimes they are brown and sometimes green. They are not gray.” Harvey leaned forward. “I'm sure they are.” For a moment they stood looking into each other's eyes, then she turned away with a little laugh and removed her sailor hat, swinging it from her hand.