[Illustration:  “For she also was riding a great race.”]

“That’s it!  Good boy.  But faster—­faster!”

Thus crying she silently prayed that Philip Alston might be within hearing of the sound of her voice.  She never doubted that he would come at her first cry.  It never once crossed her mind that he could hesitate to do what she wished in this.  He had never in all her life refused her anything, and she knew of no reason to fear refusal now.  The only fear that she felt was the dread of reaching Anvil Rock too late.  She tried to still the quivering of her nerves by reminding herself that he nearly always came to Cedar House at this hour, if he had not been there earlier in the day.  But she could not help remembering that there were times when he did not come.  If he should not be on the way now, if she should fail to meet him, if he should be still at his far-off home, or have gone elsewhere—­But she threw the paralyzing thought from her and suddenly began to strike the pony again and again, with her soft little open hands.

“Faster!  You must go faster—­you must!  Surely you can.  Please!  It isn’t very far.  We must be almost there!”

It would have been hard to tell whether the short, sharp strokes were blows or caresses, and they ceased almost as abruptly as they had begun.  She was now nearly lying across his straining shoulders, and her soft, bare arms were around his rough, shaggy neck.  She did not know what she was doing, the boy had taught her to ride so—­barebacked in the fields—­when she was a child.  And she did not know that the pony’s mane was wet with her tears.  There was no sound of weeping or faltering in the tone with which she urged him on.  That rang clear and strong with the invincible courage and strength which love’s miracle gives to the most timid and the weakest.

She was not holding to the saddle, but was clinging to it as unconsciously as the mist clung to her skirts.  Her long black hair, fallen away from its fastenings, streamed in the wind; but she gave it no heed except to toss it out of her eyes so that she might see the pony’s head, and try to look beyond toward Anvil Rock.  How far off it still seemed!  Would she never reach it?  The night seemed to be growing darker, and she could not make out the mass glooming through the darkness as she had seen it at first.  But she was not afraid of the growing blackness.  This timid, gentle girl, who had hitherto been afraid of her own shadow, was now suddenly lost to all sense of fear.  She thought nothing of the wild darkness into which she was thus flying blindly and alone.  She had forgotten the terror of the time, and the dangers of the wilderness.  She was oblivious of the utter silence, which wrapped the region in awful mystery.  She heard nothing but the rush of the pony’s running feet, and felt nothing but the leaping of her own heart.  Her only thought was to reach the goal in time; her only fear was that she might fail.