But her progress was scarcely free or exhilarating.  She was not accustomed to walking in a country where “buggy-riding” was considered the only genteel young, lady-like mode of progression, and its regular provision the expected courtesy of mankind.  Always fastidiously booted, her low-quartered shoes were charming to the eye, but hardly adapted to the dust and inequalities of the high-road.  It was true that she had thought of buying a coarser pair at Indian Spring, but once face to face with their uncompromising ugliness, she had faltered and fled.  The sun was unmistakably hot, but her parasol was too well known and offered too violent a contrast to the duster for practical use.  Once she stopped with an exclamation of annoyance, hesitated, and looked back.  In half an hour she had twice lost her shoe and her temper; a pink flush took possession of her cheeks, and her eyes were bright with suppressed rage.  Dust began to form grimy circles around their orbits; with cat-like shivers she even felt it pervade the roots of her blonde hair.  Gradually her breath grew more rapid and hysterical, her smarting eyes became humid, and at last, encountering two observant horsemen in the road, she turned and fled, until, reaching the wood, she began to cry.

Nevertheless she waited for the two horsemen to pass, to satisfy herself that she was not followed; then pushed on vaguely, until she reached a fallen tree, where, with a gesture of disgust, she tore off her hapless duster and flung it on the ground.  She then sat down sobbing, but after a moment dried her eyes hurriedly and started to her feet.  A few paces distant, erect, noiseless, with outstretched hand, the young solitary of the Carquinez Woods advanced towards her.  His hand had almost touched hers, when he stopped.

“What has happened?” he asked gravely.

“Nothing,” she said, turning half away, and searching the ground with her eyes, as if she had lost something.  “Only I must be going back now.”

“You shall go back at once, if you wish it,” he said, flushing slightly.  “But you have been crying; why?”

Frank as Miss Nellie wished to be, she could not bring herself to say that her feet hurt her, and the dust and heat were ruining her complexion.  It was therefore with a half-confident belief that her troubles were really of a moral quality that she answered, “Nothing—­nothing, but—­but—­it’s wrong to come here.”

“But you did not think it was wrong when you agreed to come, at our last meeting,” said the young man, with that persistent logic which exasperates the inconsequent feminine mind.  “It cannot be any more wrong to-day.”

“But it was not so far off,” murmured the young girl, without looking up.

“Oh, the distance makes it more improper, then,” he said abstractedly; but after a moment’s contemplation of her half-averted face, he asked gravely, “Has any one talked to you about me?”

Ten minutes before, Nellie had been burning to unburden herself of her father’s warning, but now she felt she would not.  “I wish you wouldn’t call yourself Low,” she said at last.