Gloria was silent and thoughtful.  Then, “Good-night, mamma,” she offered again, her cheek snuggled against her pillow.  “And put out the light as you go, please.”

Mrs. Gaynor, accepting her dismissal though reluctantly, sighed and went out.  As the door closed Gloria tossed back the covers and sprang out of bed, going again to her window.  She watched the mountain ridges turn blacker and blacker; saw a second star and another and suddenly the heavens filled with a softly glimmering spray of twinkling lights; she heard the night wind rustling, tender with vague voices.  A tiny shiver shook the white shoulders, a shiver not from cold, since not yet had the air chilled.  Through her mind swept a dozen vivid pictures, all of King, most of them of him out there, alone with the night and the mountains.  But she saw him also as she had seen him to-day; riding before her, breaking the alders aside, catching her as she fell.  All day she had thrilled to him.  Now, more than ever, she thrilled.  She imagined she saw him striding along through the big boles of the pines; passing swiftly, silent and stern, through a faint patch of light; standing in the shadows, listening, his keen eyes drilling the obscurity; passing on again, vigorous, forceful, determined, and “splendid.”  She wondered if he would come up with Swen Brodie; most of all she wondered when she would see him again.

In all likelihood Miss Gloria, healthy, tired young animal, would have slept until noon next day had she been left to her own devices.  But at nine o’clock her mother came up with a breakfast-tray.  Gloria regarded it sleepily.

“I would have let you sleep, my dear,” said Mrs. Gaynor, “but there are your guests, you know——­”

“Hang my guests,” was Gloria’s morning greeting.  “Just because I invited them up here do I have to give up every shred of my independence?” She was lying in identically the same position in which she had dropped off to sleep the night before; now she turned and emitted a sudden “Ouch!” Not only was she stiff from head to foot; her whole body ached as though it were nothing but bruises.

So began Gloria’s day after her picnicking with Mark King.  And in very much the same way her day continued.  Long before the sun set she had quarrelled with Georgia, turned up her nose at Teddy, laughed derisively at poor Archie’s dog-like devotion, and considerably perplexed and worried Mr. Gratton, who was astute enough to keep tactfully in the background, hurt her mother’s feelings, and alarmed her father by a wild and for the instant perfectly heartfelt determination to go and be a “movie” actress.  There was no dancing that night.  Gloria, when they thought her upstairs, sat alone out in the gloaming, a wistful, drooping little girl surrendering sweepingly to youthful melancholia.  She didn’t know just what the matter was; she didn’t seek for reasons and explanations; she merely stared at the far-off stars which swam in a blue blur, and felt miserable.