e autumn days in the
little New England town, she had fallen captive to an idea, a theory of
life, a certain poetical incentive and aspiration; for months she had
fed her imagination upon this new experience, and suddenly Stephen Burns
had come, and by his personal presence asserted a personal claim. She
had been unconsciously ignoring the personal element in their relation,
which had, in the months of separation, become very indefinite and
unreal to her. She had told her father that Stephen's eyes were brown,
and she found that they were blue; she had described him as being tall,
and he had turned out to be rather below the medium height; she had
forgotten what his voice was like, and it seemed oppressively rich and
full.

"Better look out for your horse, Mr. Burns!" she said curtly. "He almost
took a header a minute ago."

"Did he?" said Stephen. "I did not notice. This is the view you told me
about, is it not?"

"Very likely," she returned, with affected indifference. "We Colorado
people always do a good deal of bragging when we are in the East. We
wear all our little descriptions and enthusiasms threadbare."

"There was nothing threadbare about your account," Stephen protested.
"It was almost as vivid as the sight itself."

"We take things more naturally when we get back to them. Come, Jack,
let's go faster!"

There was a level stretch of road before them, and the two young people
were off with a rush. Stephen knew that the livery horse he rode could
never keep up with them, even had his pride allowed him to follow
uninvited. He had a dazed, hurt feeling, which was not more than half
dispelled when, a few minutes later he came up with the truants, resting
their horses at the top of a sudden dip in the road.

"Who got there first?" called a voice from one of the buckboards.

"Amy, of course. You don't suppose Cigarette would pass a lady!"

"Jacky wouldn't 'cause he couldn't!" Amy quoted. "Poor Cigarette," she
added, descending to prose again, and tapping Cigarette's nose with the
butt of her riding-crop. "How he did heave and pant when he caught up
with us! And Sunbeam never turned a hair!"

"What made you call him Sunbeam?" Stephen asked, with an effort to
appear undisturbed, as he watched her stroking the glossy black neck.

"Because he wasn't yellow," she answered shortly; upon which somebody
laughed.

They picknicked in a sunny opening among the scrub-oaks, on the edge of
a hollow through which a m