"Poor Champe," said Betty.

"At least he went riding with you three afternoons--lucky Champe!"

"Ah, so he did; and must I tell you why?"

He nodded. "You shan't go home until you do," he declared grimly.

Betty reached up and plucked a handful of aspen leaves, scattering them upon the road.

"By what right, O horse-taming Hector (isn't that the way they talk in Homer?)"

"By the right of the strongest, O fair Helena (it's the way they talk in translations of Homer)."

"How very learned you are!" sighed Betty.

"How very lovely you are!" sighed Dan.

"And you will really force me to tell you?" she asked.

"For your own sake, don't let it come to that," he replied.

"But are you sure that you are strong enough to hear it?"

"I am strong enough for anything," he a.s.sured her, "except suspense."

"Well, if I must, then let me whisper it--I went because--" she drew back, "I implore you not to uproot the forest in your wrath."

"Speak quickly," urged Dan, impatiently.

"I went because--brace yourself--I went because he asked me."

"O Betty!" he cried, and caught her hand.

"O Dan!" she laughed, and drew her hand away.

"You deserve to be whipped," he went on sternly. "How dare you play with the green-eyed monster I'm wearing on my sleeve? Haven't you heard his growls, madam?"

"He's a pretty monster," said Betty. "I should like to pat him."

"Oh, he needs to be gently stroked, I tell you."

"Does he wake often--poor monster?"

Dan lowered his abashed eyes to the road.

"Well, that--ah, that depends--" he began awkwardly.

"Ah, that depends upon your fancies," finished Betty, and rode on rapidly.

It was a moment before he came up with her, and when he did so his face was flushed.

"Do you mind about my fancies, Betty?" he asked humbly.

"I?" said Betty, disdainfully. "Why, what have I to do with them?"

"With my fancies? nothing--so help me G.o.d--nothing."

"I am glad to hear it," she replied quietly, stroking her horse. Her cheeks were glowing and she let the overhanging branches screen her face. As they rode on silently they heard the rustling of the leaves beneath the horses'

feet, and the soft wind playing through the forest. A chain of lights and shadows ran before them into the misty purple of the distance, where the dim trees went up like gothic spires.

Betty's hands were trembling, but fearing the stillness, she spoke in a careless voice.

"When do you go back to college?" she inquired politely.

"In two days--but it's all the same to you, I dare say."

"Indeed it isn't. I shall be very sorry."

"You needn't lie to me," he returned irritably. "I beg your pardon, but a lie is a lie, you know."

"So I suppose, but I wasn't lying--I shall be very sorry."

A fiery maple branch fell between them, and he impatiently thrust it aside.

"When you treat me like this you raise the devil in me," he said angrily.

"As I told you before, Betty, when I'm not Lightfoot I'm Montjoy--it may be this that makes you plague me so."

"O Dan, Dan!" she laughed, but in a moment added gravely: "When you're neither Lightfoot nor Montjoy, you're just yourself, and it's then, after all, that I like you best. Shall we turn now?" She wheeled her horse about on the rustling leaves, and they started toward the sunset light shining far up the road.

"When you like me best," said Dan, pa.s.sionately. "Betty, when is that?" His ardent look was on her face, and she, defying her fears, met it with her beaming eyes. "When you're just yourself, Dan," she answered and galloped on. Her lips were smiling, but there was a prayer in her heart, for it cried, "Dear G.o.d, let him love me, let him love me."

VIII

BETTY'S UNBELIEF

"Dear G.o.d, let him love me," she prayed again in the cool twilight of her chamber. Before the open window she put her hands to her burning cheeks and felt the wind trickle between her quivering fingers. Her heart fluttered like a bird and her blood went in little tremours through her veins. For a single instant she seemed to feel the pa.s.sage of the earth through s.p.a.ce.

"Oh, let him love me! let him love me!" she cried upon her knees.

When Virginia came in she rose and turned to her with the brightness of tears on her lashes.

"Do you want me to help you, dear?" she asked, gently.

"Oh, I'm all dressed," answered Virginia, coming toward her. She held a lamp in her hand, and the light fell over her girlish figure in its muslin gown. "You are so late, Betty," she added, stopping before the bureau.

"Were you by yourself?"