and the arrival of Sylvia, who
disclosed such worlds and heralded the revolution.

That spring of his twentieth year the stable and all its stock went to
the creditors, and old Planter bought the small frame house just outside
the village, on the edge of his estate, and drew his boundary around it.
He was willing that the Mortons should remain for the present in their
old home at a nominal rent, and after a fashion they might struggle
along, for George's mother was exceptionally clever at cleansing fine
laces and linens; the estate would have work for his father from time to
time; as for himself, Planter's superintendent suggested, there were new
and difficult horses at Oakmont and a scarcity of trustworthy grooms.
George shook his head.

"Sure, I want a job," he admitted, "but not as old Planter's servant, or
anybody else's. I want to be my own boss."

George hadn't guessed that his reputation as a horseman had travelled as
far as the big house. The superintendent explained that it had, and
that, living at home, merely helping out for the summer, he would be
quite apart from the ordinary men around the stables. His parents sensed
a threat. They begged him to accept.

"We've got to do as Old Planter wants at the start or he'll put us out,
and we're too old to make another home."

So George went with his head up, telling himself he was doing Planter a
favour; but he didn't like it, and almost at once commenced to plan to
get away, if he could, without hurting his parents. Then Sylvia, just
home from her last year at school, came into the stable toward the end
of his day's work. Her overpowering father was with her, and her
brother, Lambert, who was about George's age. She examined interestedly
the horse reserved for her, and one or two others of which she was
envious.

George wanted to stare at her. He had only glimpsed her casually and at
a distance in summers gone by. Now she was close, and he knew he had
never seen anything to match her slender, adolescent figure, or her
finely balanced face with its intolerant eyes and its frame of black
hair.

"But," he heard her say to her father in a flexible contralto voice, "I
don't care to bother you or Lambert every time I want to ride."

An argument, unintelligible to George, flowed for a moment. Then Old
Planter's tones, bass and authoritative, filled the stable.

"Come here, young Morton!"

George advanced, not touching his cap, to remind the big man that there