“Yes,” he admitted.  “But you are along, you know!  What is more,”—­as he realized that she might fear he resented her being with him,—­“I am glad that you are.  And now shall we start?  We’ve a long ride ahead of us yet.”

She followed him down through the alders; at the pool where she had slipped before, and he had held her in his arms, she was very careful not to slip now.  Nor did they look at each other while she lightly touched his hand and they crossed over.  For an hour, until the wilderness worked its green magic upon them again, they were a very silent man and girl, he pondering on Brodie and his men pushing on into the solitudes, she wondering many things about her companion—­and about herself.

Chapter VIII

Through the long shadows of evening they rode back to the log house.  While King unsaddled, Gloria stood watching him; her eyes shone softly through the dusk.

“It has been a truly wonderful day,” she said simply.

“It is you who have been wonderful,” he answered stoutly.  “I know you are not used to long rides like ours to-day; I know you are tired out.  And you never gave a sign.”

“The blood of my ancestors,” she laughed happily.

In the house Gratton looked at them sharply and suspiciously; Archie and Teddy saw only Gloria through sorrowful eyes.  King, with a nod to the various guests and a few words with Mrs. Gaynor, entirely given to warm praise of her daughter, drew Ben aside for a discussion of conditions as he had found them and left them to-day.  He was dead sure that Brodie had gone back to Honeycutt, had gotten what he wanted, and was off in a bee-line to put to the proof the old man’s tale.

Gloria was off to bed early, saying “good-night everybody” rather absently.  She climbed up the stairs wearily.  When her mother slipped away from the others, having started the victrola and urged them to dancing, she found Gloria ready for bed but standing before her window, looking out at the first stars.  Mrs. Gaynor discovered in her little daughter a new, grave-eyed uncommunicativeness.  Gloria usually had so many bright, gushing things to say after a day of pleasure, but to-night she appeared oddly preoccupied.

“Oh, I’m dead tired, mamma,” she said impatiently.  “Nothing happened.  I’ll tell you to-morrow—­anything I can think of.  And now, good-night; I’m so sleepy.”  She kissed her mother and added:  “I didn’t tell Mark good-night—­”

“Mark?  Already, my dear?”

“He was outside with papa,” said Gloria, slipping into bed.  “Will you tell him good-night for me?”

“He’s gone,” retorted her mother, with a certain relish.

“Gone!” Gloria sat up, a very pretty picture of consternation.  “Where?”

“Back into the woods.  Where he came from, of course.  I actually think,” and she laughed deprecatingly though with a shrewd watchful look to mark her daughter’s quick play of expression, “that that man couldn’t sleep two consecutive nights under a roof.  His clothes smell like a pine-tree.  He wouldn’t understand us any more than we could understand him, I suppose.”