"Mind? _I mind_, Margaret? Why, you know that I would ride to the ends of the earth with you and for you, even under ordinary circumstances. Now that you're in trouble, of course I am ready. I don't know the facts--though I guess some of them--and I don't understand all that these things mean, but I know you have been wronged, outraged, placed in a false position, humiliated by some trespass upon your privacy or your personality, and I am here to stand by you till the wrong is righted, the outrage undone, and the humiliation lifted from your spirit. I'll do anything, everything--oh, Margaret, you don't know how I love you or how eager I am to help you!" Margaret looked at her with loving and teary eyes. Presently she said: "I know it all, dear. And yet you Yankees are supposed to be cold and calculating and hard. How utterly mistaken people are in their judgments! But here are the horses. We'll have a spin, and then--" She paused as if in doubt and apprehension. Presently she added: "And then I must confront my father. He is the proper person and he must set this thing right." After a brisk gallop of half a mile, Margaret reined her horse down to a walk, and entered into conversation with her friend. "I feel, Millicent," she began, "that I ought to take you completely into my confidence, and tell you all that this thing means. Your loyalty and your affection deserve that. But there are reasons which I cannot explain that forbid so full a confidence. I am going to tell you all I can, and I want you to believe and know that whatever reserves I practise are practised solely for your sake." "But how can that be, Margaret? Of course you are to tell me as much or as little as you please, but--" "I see. I can't explain. I can only say that if I practise reserve at all, it is only because of my tender affection for you. Can you believe that blindly, without explanation? And will you?" "I believe whatever you tell me, Margaret, and I do not wish to hear anything that for any reason you do not wish me to hear." "Thank you, dear," said the agitated girl as she again pressed her horse to his paces; "God help me if I'm wrong!" There was so strong a suggestion of tragedy in the girl's tone that Millicent felt herself called upon to interfere with Margaret's purpose, which she instinctively understood and which seemed to her scarcely less than suicidal. She said nothing so long as the horses were moving swiftly. When they resumed the walk, she turned to her companion and asked: "Do you believe in my friendship, Margaret, and do you trust its loyalty so far as to forgive an impertinence in its behalf?" "I certainly do, Millicent. I could never--"