s
were working nervously.

"No, no, not at all. But you, you are suffering; they struck you!" she
cried in sharp alarm.

He stepped back and drew his hand across his brow.

"No, it is not that," he spoke rapidly now, with his hands clenched at
his side. "But if they had hurt you, I would beat their brains out with
my hands. I would kill them all. I was never afraid before. You are the
only beautiful thing that has ever come close to me. You came like an
angel out of the sky. You are like the music you sing, you are like the
stars and the snow on the mountains where I played when I was a little
boy. You are like all that I wanted once and never had, you are all
that they have killed in me. I die for you tonight, tomorrow, for all
eternity. I am not a coward; I was afraid because I love you more than
Christ who died for me, more than I am afraid of hell, or hope for
heaven. I was never afraid before. If you had fallen--oh, my God!" He
threw his arms out blindly and dropped his head upon the pony's mane,
leaning limply against the animal like a man struck by some sickness.
His shoulders rose and fell perceptibly with his laboured breathing. The
horse stood cowed with exhaustion and fear. Presently Margaret laid her
hand on Eric's head and said gently:

"You are better now, shall we go on? Can you get your horse?"

"No, he has gone with the herd. I will lead yours, she is not safe.
I will not frighten you again." His voice was still husky, but it was
steady now. He took hold of the bit and tramped home in silence.

When they reached the house, Eric stood stolidly by the pony's head
until Wyllis came to lift his sister from the saddle.

"The horses were badly frightened, Wyllis. I think I was pretty
thoroughly scared myself," she said as she took her brother's arm and
went slowly up the hill toward the house. "No, I'm not hurt, thanks to
Eric. You must thank him for taking such good care of me. He's a mighty
fine fellow. I'll tell you all about it in the morning, dear. I was
pretty well shaken up and I'm going right to bed now. Good night."

When she reached the low room in which she slept, she sank upon the bed
in her riding dress, face downward.

"Oh, I pity him! I pity him!" she murmured, with a long sigh of
exhaustion. She must have slept a little. When she rose again, she took
from her dress a letter that had been waiting for her at the village
post-office. It was closely written in a long, angular hand, cover