Eleanor clears her throat. "Yes." Quinton sits bolt upright from his lounging attitude. "What?" he says, staring at her intently. Then she recounts her scene with Paulina, word for word, while Quinton listens breathlessly. "Her horse _shot from under her_?" he cries, as if that is of far more importance than Eleanor's narrow escape. "Yes, dear, wasn't it awful? It might have been you or me! I do believe the masked man is on the warpath, only he went for _her_ this time instead. It may be a lunatic, for every act seems so perfectly motiveless." "I told you not to venture out," he says, his face reddening with annoyance. "You _would_ go against my wishes, and suffered for it accordingly. The idea of getting into conversation, and actually deigning to quarrel with a stranger. It was most humiliating and lowering. Another time if you meet this 'Paulina,' as you call the white Amazon, kindly avoid her. This merely confirms me in the conviction which has grown upon me lately, that this place is no longer fit for us to dwell in. I, for one, am sick of it, and long for a taste of clubdom and life again." "Oh! Carol!" she exclaims, and the words are wrung from her like a sharp cry. "Don't look so absurdly miserable, my dear," he says hastily, dreading a scene with all the shrinking of his cowardly nature. "I won't say anything to vex you again. I was only cross; forgive me." Eleanor's heart goes out to him with all the old yearning tenderness. Forgive him! Why, she would forgive Carol anything--he is her all. She falls on her knees at his side, and draws down his face for a kiss. As she does so, the sound of a loud, rich, stirring voice, swelling out on the evening air, reaches them. They exchange hurried glances, start to their feet, and look cautiously out. It is "Paulina," swaggering down the hill with a devil-may-care mien, her gun still over her shoulder, her hands in her pockets. They catch the words, which ring full and clear: "And constancy lives in realms above, And life is thorny and youth is vain; And to be wroth with one we love Doth work like madness in the brain." "She _is_ like a 'troll,'" murmurs Eleanor, "shrieking in the night." "A magnificent creature," says Carol. "Quite a picture!" His eyes are riveted on the retreating form! CHAPTER XXI. BY A ROUTE OBSCURE AND LONELY, HAUNTED BY ILL ANGELS ONLY.--_E. A. Poe_. Eleanor is taking her siesta, wrapt in dreams of Carol and love. No thought of evil disturbs her rest, for to-day the clouds seem to have blown over. Carol has been tender and adoring as of old, he speaks no more of the dreaded up-rooting, but is peaceful and content. Yet while she lies in fancy-land--asleep--she cannot see him in the room below, a look of excitement on his face while he writes with feverish haste on a large sheet of flimsy paper. The words reel rapidly off his quill, he never pauses, and his eyes are aglow with the fire of energy.