the walled kitchen garden, and so to the
back regions of the house. She stood still and faced him. "Do you think
I am going to do that?" she asked, her blue eyes looking straight into
his.

He had aroused her indignant opposition. What would he do now, this
amazing and masterful man?

He looked down at her with an odd expression in his face. It was
protecting, tender, amused. "Little shy flower!" he said--he seemed to
cling to that not very original metaphor--"I mustn't forget how you have
been brought up, in all this shelter and luxury, must I? It is natural
to you, little girl, and I'll keep you in it as far as I can. But you've
got to remember what I am too. You must come out of your cotton wool
sometimes. Life isn't all softness and luxury."

Food and raiment! What had she been thinking of all the morning? Her
eyes fell.

"You can trust me, you know," he said, still speaking softly. "But you
believe in daring, don't you? You must show a little yourself."

"It isn't at all that I'm afraid," she said weakly.

"Of course not. I know that," he answered. "It is simply that you don't
do such things here." He waved his hand towards the corner of the big
house, which could be seen through the trees. "But you want to get out
of it, you said."

Did she want to get out of it? She was tired of the dull ease. She was
of the Clintons, of the women who were kept under; but there were men
Clintons behind her too, men who took the ease when it came to them, but
did not put it in the first place, men of courage, men of daring. It was
the love of adventure in her blood that made her answer, "Perhaps I will
come," and then try to dart past him.

He put out his arm to stop her. "I'm not going to walk six miles here
and back on the chance," he said roughly. But she was equal to him this
time. "If you don't think it worth while you need not come," she said.
"I won't promise." Then she was gone.

He walked back slowly to the garden. Jim Graham was lying back in a
basket chair, dressed in smart blue flannel and Russian leather boots,
talking to Joan and Nancy. Through the open window of the library the
top of the Squire's head could be seen over the back of an easy-chair.

Mackenzie joined the little group under the lime. "Couldn't find her,"
he said shortly.

"She'll turn up at tea-time," said Jim equably.

The clear eyes of the twins were fixed on Mackenzie. They had run round
to the front of the house on hearing the wheel