ore than once the riders ducked low to
escape the branches of outreaching and overhanging trees. They clattered
over the small plank bridges, and thundered over the larger iron ones to
an ominous clanking of loose rods.

They rode side by side, saving the animals for the rush at the finish,
yet putting them at a pace that drew upon vitality and staying power.
Curving around a clump of white oaks, the road straightened out before
them for several hundred yards, at the end of which they could see the
ruined mill.

"Now for it!" the girl cried.

She urged the horse by suddenly leaning forward with her body, at the
same time, for an instant, letting the rein slack and touching the neck
with her bridle hand. She began to draw away from the man.

"Touch her on the neck!" she cried to him.

With this, the mare pulled alongside and began gradually to pass the
girl. Chris and Lute looked at each other for a moment, the mare still
drawing ahead, so that Chris was compelled slowly to turn his head. The
mill was a hundred yards away.

"Shall I give him the spurs?" Lute shouted.

The man nodded, and the girl drove the spurs in sharply and quickly,
calling upon the horse for its utmost, but watched her own horse forge
slowly ahead of her.

"Beaten by three lengths!" Lute beamed triumphantly, as they pulled into
a walk. "Confess, sir, confess! You didn't think the old mare had it in
her."

Lute leaned to the side and rested her hand for a moment on Dolly's wet
neck.

"Ban's a sluggard alongside of her," Chris affirmed. "Dolly's all right,
if she is in her Indian Summer."

Lute nodded approval. "That's a sweet way of putting it--Indian Summer.
It just describes her. But she's not lazy. She has all the fire and none
of the folly. She is very wise, what of her years."

"That accounts for it," Chris demurred. "Her folly passed with her
youth. Many's the lively time she's given you."

"No," Lute answered. "I never knew her really to cut up. I think the
only trouble she ever gave me was when I was training her to open gates.
She was afraid when they swung back upon her--the animal's fear of the
trap, perhaps. But she bravely got over it. And she never was vicious.
She never bolted, nor bucked, nor cut up in all her life--never, not
once."

The horses went on at a walk, still breathing heavily from their run.
The road wound along the bottom of the valley, now and again crossing
the stream. From either side rose the drowsy