Lewis sank back upon one elbow.  He had been on the point of telling her that good-by was only two days off.  Her tone stopped him.  “Do you remember the night of the sunset?” he asked, instead.

Natalie nodded.

“I said I was going to sail to the biggest island.  You said you were, too, and I said you couldn’t because you were littlest.  Do you remember?”

Natalie sank her head slowly in assent.  Her lower lip trembled.  Suddenly she laughed and sprang to her feet.

“Come on,” she cried, “or we’ll be late for supper.  I’ll beat you to the fence.”  She was off with a rush, but Lewis got to the fence first.  He helped her over with mock ceremony.  When they came to a wall farther on he helped her over again.  This helping Natalie over obstacles was something new.  It gave him faint twinges of pleasure.

They came to the foot of the pasture at the back of the house and to the last wall of all.  “Come on,” said Lewis, smiling and holding out his hand.

“Not this time, silly,” said Natalie.  “Don’t you see the bars are down?”

“Yes, I see,” said Lewis, springing into the open gap in the wall, “but you’re not coming through here.  You’re going over.”

“Am I?” said Natalie, and rushed at him.  With one arm he caught her around the waist and threw her back.  She landed on all fours, like a cat.  Then, laughing, she sprang up and came at him again, only to be hurled back once more.  Lewis was laughing, too, laughing at this last romp in the name of childhood.  Natalie was so strong, so stipple, that he handled her roughly without fear of hurting her.  They both felt the joy of strength and battle and exulted.  Four times Natalie stormed the breach, and four times was she hurled back.  Then she stood, panting, and holding her sides, the blood rioting in her cheeks, and fire in her eyes.

“Give up?” asked Lewis.

Natalie shook her head.

“We’ll be late for supper.”

“I don’t care,” said Natalie.  “I’ll never give up; only I’m cold.”  She shivered.

“Cold, Nat?” cried Lewis.  “Here.”  He started to take off his thick tweed coat.  At the exact moment when his arms were imprisoned in the sleeves, Natalie shot by him.  She held her skirts above her knees and ran.

Long was the chase before Lewis caught her.  He threw his arms around her and held her.  Natalie did not struggle.

“You can’t carry me back,” she gasped.  “It’s too far.”  Then suddenly from her eyes a woman looked out—­a woman Lewis did not know.  His arms dropped to his sides.  He felt the blood pumping in his heart—­his heart that had been pressed but now against the breast of this strange unknown.  By one impulse they turned from each other and walked silently to the house.  They were strangers,

CHAPTER XLIX

That evening when Natalie was driving him home Lewis told her that to-morrow was good-by.  Gip, as usual, was holding Natalie’s attention so that she could scarcely pay heed to what Lewis was saying.  But the central fact that he and Leighton were going hung in her mind and sank in slowly, so that when they got to the homestead she could say quite evenly: