n the track. He waited until
he was slightly in advance before he descended abruptly upon them.

Annette was sitting very straight, talking excitedly, and Carter was
evidently trying to reassure her.

As Sandy plunged down the embankment, they started apart, and Carter
reached for the whip. Before he could urge the horse forward, Sandy
had swung himself lightly to the step of the buggy, and was leaning
back against the dash-board. He looked past Carter to Annette. She was
making a heroic effort to look unconcerned and indifferent, but her
eyelids were red, and her handkerchief was twisted into a damp little
string about her fingers. Sandy wasted no time in diplomacy; he struck
straight out from the shoulder.

"If it's doing something you don't want to, you don't have to, Nettie.
I'm here."

Carter stopped his horse.

"Will you get down?" he demanded angrily.

"After you," said Sandy.

Carter measured his man, then stepped to the ground. Sandy promptly
followed.

"And now," said Carter, "you'll perhaps be good enough to explain what
you mean."

Sandy still kept his hand on the buggy and his eyes on Annette; when
he spoke it was to her.

"If it's your wish to go on, say the word."

The tearful young person in the buggy looked very limp and miserable,
but declined to make any remarks.

"Miss Fenton and I expect to be married this evening," said Carter,
striving for dignity, though his breath came short with excitement.
"We take the train in twenty minutes. Your interference is not only
impudent--it's useless. I know perfectly well who sent you: it was
Judge Hollis. He was the only man we met after we left town. Just
return to him, with my compliments, and tell him I say he is a meddler
and a fool!"

"Annette," said Sandy, softly, coming toward her, "the doctor'll be
wanting his coffee by now."

"Let me pass," cried Carter, "you common hound! Take your foot off
that step or I'll--" He made a quick motion toward his hip, and Sandy
caught his hand as it closed on a pearl-handled revolver.

"None of that, man! I'll be going when I have her word. Is it good-by,
Annette? Must I be taking the word to your father that you've left him
now and for always? Yes? Then a shake of the hand for old times'
sake."

Annette slipped a cold little hand into his free one, and feeling the
solid grasp of his broad palm, she clung to it as a drowning man
clings to a spar.

"I can't go!" she cried, in a burst of tears. "I c