Half a mile farther on he came upon Viola and Barry Lapelle, riding slowly side by side through the narrow lane. He drew off to one side to allow them to pass, doffing his beaver ceremoniously. Lapelle's friendly greeting did not surprise him, for the two had seen a great deal of each other, and at no time had there been anything in the lover's manner to indicate that Viola had confided to him the story of the meeting in the thicket. But he was profoundly astonished when the girl favoured him with a warm, gay smile and cried out a cheery "How do you do, Kenneth!" More than that, she drew rein and added to his amazement by shaking her finger reproachfully at him, saying: "Where on earth have you been keeping yourself? I have not laid eyes on you for more than a week." Utterly confounded by this unexpected attack, Kenneth stammered: "Why, I--er--I have been very busy." Not laid eyes on him, indeed! What was her game? "Now that I come to think of it," he went on, recovering himself, "it is fully a week since I've seen you. Don't you ever come down town, Viola?" "Every day," she said, coolly. "We just happen never to see each other, that's all. I am glad to have had this little glimpse of you, Kenneth, even though it is away out here in the woods." There was no mistaking the underlying significance of these words. They contained the thinly veiled implication that he had followed for the purpose of spying upon her. "Better turn around and ride back with us, Kenny," said Barry, politely but not graciously. "I am on my way up to the Wild Cat to see a man on business," said Kenneth, lamely. "Kenny?" repeated Viola, puckering her brow. "Where have I heard that name before? I seem to remember--oh, as if it were a thousand years ago. Do they call you Kenny for short?" "It grew up with me," he replied. "Ever since I can remember, my folks--" He broke off in the middle of the sentence, confronted by a disconcerting thought. Could it be possible that somewhere in Viola's brain,--or rather in Minda's baby brain,--that familiar name had stamped itself? Why not? If it had been impressed upon his own baby brain, why not in a less degree upon hers? He made a pretence of stooping far over to adjust a corner of his saddle blanket. Straightening up, he went on: "Any name is better than what the boys used to call me at school. I was known by the elegant name of Piggy, due to an appetite over which I seemed to have no control. Well, I must be getting along. Good day to you." He lifted his hat and rode off. He had gone not more than twenty rods when he heard a masculine shout from behind: turning, he discovered that the couple were still standing where he had left them. Lapelle called out: "Your sister wants to have a word with you." She rode swiftly up to where he was waiting.