"We will go by the jungle," she says. "You know my favourite road; not past Elizabeth's hut, since her doors will be closed to me henceforth. I shall miss her friendship when I am alone, but you must not leave me so often now, and we will ask that nice Major Short and Captain Stevenson to come and see us again." "So you _are_ fond of society still," says Quinton smiling, "though you denied it just now." "Two congenial spirits are not 'society,'" she replies, "That word comprises people in a bulk. But here are the horses. Doesn't Braye du Valle look splendid? I hope if I died you would let him drag me to my grave." "Don't be gruesome," says Carol. "Oh! we _must_ take the dog. Where is he? Do go and find him, dear." "He is such a bothering little beast, we shall be better without him," protests Quinton. "Yesterday he nearly frightened my horse over a precipice, flying into the bushes and fighting with some wild animal. I don't know what it was, but he came out bitten and bleeding. He limped home, leaving a track behind him. Something big rushed away, I shot at it but did not hit it. I don't know how the dog escaped with his life." "But he is all right to-day, and I want to take him, he is always so busy and amusing," Eleanor persists. "Besides, such a plucky little beggar ought not to be coddled. I think you will find him in my room." Quinton goes unwillingly. The dog and its vagaries have got on his nerves, though he does not care to own it. As Eleanor is waiting without she hears the sound of a horse behind, and, turning quickly, is surprised to see a stranger riding up the hill. A tall, handsome woman well developed, with portly shoulders and large hands. She is riding an immense charger, and whistling gaily. At a second glance Eleanor sees that this masculine young woman is strikingly attractive, her style distinctly original, her figure, though large, splendidly proportioned. She has shiningly white teeth under her curling lips--full, red, and smiling. Her eyes are large, dark, and brilliant, flashing like twin stars under a level brow, with black, almost bushy eyebrows. Her complexion is rich and clear, her hair braided in masses under a man's hat. A gun slung over her shoulder gives her a sporting appearance. She looks curiously at Eleanor's fragile beauty--the contrast between them is marked. The whistle dies on the stranger's lips, she sets her mouth, averts her head, lashes her steed, and gallops by--never halting till out of sight of the slim woman on Braye du Valle. "I wonder who she can be?" thinks Eleanor, watching the departing figure so intently that she never notices Carol return with the dog till he speaks: "What are you looking at?" His eyes follow the direction of her gaze, but discern only a cloud of dust in the distance. "A stranger," cries Eleanor excitedly, "a white woman riding alone." "Really! What was she like?"