Donald accepted the challenge. Madly they flew along over the gray sward, Tibby several yards in advance, her mellow laugh ringing back to him as the two mustangs, evidently enjoying the fun, settled down to their fastest paces, needing no urging. But urge as he might, Donald could not gain the advantage Tibby had taken at the outset, and for four miles they rode thus, until flushed, panting and defiant, Tibby drew rein at Mark’s doorway, and reached her hands to Mark himself to take her down from the horse. “Why, what foolishness now? I’m afraid you’ve been racing,” he said, noticing the heaving flanks of the horses. “Yes,” Tibby explained, with a note of contempt in her voice, “that presumptuous young man thought he could catch me. I hope he realizes his folly.” And she shot a triumphant glance at Donald, who had dismounted and stood by his horse’s head. He smiled serenely. “Yes, when you are carried on the back of a Tempest,” he replied. “Besides, we didn’t start fair.” “Ah, the beaten ones always complain of a poor start, don’t they, Mr. Cramer? I shall always ride Tempest. I can never give him up, never!—for anything but a cyclone,” she added, with another swift glance at Donald. Mark laughed. “You’ll have to take him with you when you go, I reckon,” he said. “You dear man! And you dear horse, not to stumble and betray me! What more can I ask for in this life?” Donald stood looking thoughtfully at Tibby for a moment while she stroked and patted her pony, then, reaching out his hand for the bridle, he led the horses to the stable, while Tibby, provoked at Donald’s calm acceptance of defeat, went slowly into the house. “I do wish I could make him angry just once,” she said to herself. “He is so exasperatingly cool and self-controlled, I can do nothing with him. He must think me the most undisciplined girl extant. But I beat him in the race. What should I have done if I had not?” Meanwhile, Donald called himself unflattering names for so far forgetting time and place in his wooing, but smiled as he thought, “She has challenged me to race for her, and I shall win at last. The race is to the one with the best staying qualities, and I shall not know when I am beaten. She is worth racing for.” CHAPTER XXX THE COMING OF THE STORM Winter was slow in claiming sovereignty over Nebraska in the year of which we write, and coquetted with summer through all the weeks of November and December. Such snows as had come were light and short-lived, and the winds had been less furious and threatening than usual at this season of the year. Donald and Tibby had enjoyed many rides over the gray plains and river wold, and were apparently the best of friends, notwithstanding Donald’s premature declaration. But their camaraderie was far from sweethearting. It looked as if Tibby had decided to put their acquaintance on the I’ll-be-a-sister-to-you footing.