“I must get back.  If my horse should reach, the hotel without me, my mother will be dreadfully alarmed.  I promised her to be back by—­”

Gordon did not hear what the hour was, for she turned away her face and began to cry quietly.  She tried to brush the tears away with her fingers; but one or two slipped past and dropped on her dress.  With face still averted, she began to feel about her dress for her handkerchief; but being unable to find it, she gave it up.

There was something about her crying so quietly that touched the young man very curiously.  She seemed suddenly much younger, quite like a little girl, and he felt like kissing her to comfort her.  He did the next thing.

“Don’t cry,” he said gently.  “Here, take mine.”  He pressed his handkerchief on her.  He blessed Heaven that it was uncrumpled.

Now there is something about one’s lending another a handkerchief that goes far toward breaking down the barriers of conventionality and bridges years.  Keith in a moment had come to feel a friendliness for the girl that he might not have felt in years, and he began to soothe her.

“I don’t know what is the matter—­with me,” she said, as she dried her eyes.  “I am not—­usually so—­weak and foolish.  I was only afraid my mother would think something had happened to me—­and she has not been very well.”  She made a brave effort to command herself, and sat up very straight.  “There.  Thank you very much.”  She handed him his handkerchief almost grimly.  “Now I am all right.  But I am afraid I cannot walk.  I tried, but—.  You will have to go and get me a carriage, if you please.”

Keith rose and began to gather up his books and stuff them in his pockets.

“No carriage can get up here; the pines are too thick below, and there is no road; but I will carry you down to where a vehicle can come, and then get you one.”

She took a glance at his spare figure.  “You cannot carry me, you are not strong enough I want you to get me a carriage or a wagon, please.  You can go to the hotel.  We are stopping at the Springs.”

By this time Gordon had forced the books into his pocket, and he squared himself before her.

“Now,” he said, without heeding her protest; and leaning down, he slipped his arms under her and lifted her as tenderly and as easily as if she had been a little girl.

As he bore her along, the pain subsided, and she found opportunity to take a good look at his face.  His profile was clean-cut; the mouth was pleasant and curved slightly upward, but, under the weight he was carrying, was so close shut as to bring out the chin boldly.  The cheekbones were rather high; the gray eyes were wide open and full of light.  And as he advanced, walking with easy strides where the path was smooth, picking his way carefully where it was rough, the color rose under the deep tan of his cheeks.

She was the first to break the silence.  She had been watching the rising color in his face, the dilation of his nostrils, and feeling the quickening rise and fall of his chest.