y. Don't
you understand? The creature rose up just in time to be in the way of
my leap, and we were thrown over--my horse and I."

"Thrown! You were not hurt, Mr. Knowlton?"

"I deserved it, didn't? But I was nothing the worse--except for losing
my horse, and my self-complacency."

"Was the horse killed?"

"No; not by the fall. But he was injured; so that I saw the best thing
to do would be to put him out of life at once; so I did it. I had my
pistols; I often ride with them, to be ready for any sport that may
offer. I am very much ashamed, to have to tell you this story of
myself!"

There was so much of earnestness in the expression of the last
sentence, it was said with such a deferential contrition, if I may so
speak, that Diana's thoughts experienced a diversion from the subject
that had occasioned them. The contrition came more home than the fault.
By common consent they went off to other matters of talk. Diana
explained and commented on the history and features of Pleasant Valley,
so far at least as her companion's questions called for such
explanation, and that was a good deal. Mr. Knowlton gave her details of
his own life and experience, which were much more interesting, she
thought. The conversation ran freely; and again and again eyes met eyes
full in sympathy over some grave or laughing point of intelligence.

And what is there in the meeting of eyes? What if the one pair were
sparkling and quick, and the brow over them bore the fair lines of
command? What though the other pair were deep and thoughtful and sweet,
and the brow one that promised passion and power? A thousand other eyes
might have looked on either one of them, and forgotten; these two
looked--and remembered. You cannot tell why; it is the old story; the
hidden, unreadable affinity making itself known to its counterpart; the
sign and countersign of nature. But it was only nature that gave and
took; not Diana and Mr. Knowlton.

Meanwhile Prince had an easy time; and the little waggon went very
gently over the smooth roads past one farm after another.

"Prince _can_ go faster than this," Diana confided at last to her
companion.

"He doesn't want to, does he?"

Diana laughed, and knew in her heart she was of Prince's mind.

However, even five miles will come to an end in time if you keep going
even slowly; and in time the little brown house of Mrs. Bartlett
appeared in the distance, and Prince drew the waggon up before the
door. Diana