The heart of Ford lifted in his chest at her tone and her words, along toward the last.  He forgot the chill of her voice in the beginning, and he dwelt greedily upon the fact that once more she had called him Ford.  But his joy died suddenly when he led his horse out and discovered that Dick and Jim Felton were coming down the path, within easy hearing of her.  Ford did not know women very well, but most men are born with a rudimentary understanding of them.  He suspected that her intimacy of tone was meant for Dick’s benefit; and when they had ridden three or four miles and her share of the conversation during that time had consisted of “yes” twice, “no” three times, and one “indeed,” he was sure of it.

So Ford began to wonder why she came at all—­unless that, also, was meant to discipline Dick—­and his own mood became a silent one.  He did not, he told himself indignantly, much relish being used as a club to beat some other man into good behavior.

They rode almost to Long Ridge before Ford discovered that Josephine was stealing glances at his face whenever she thought he was not looking, and that the glances were questioning, and might almost be called timid.  He waited until he was sure he was not mistaken, and then turned his head unexpectedly, and smiled into her startled eyes.

“What is it?” he asked, still smiling at her.  “I won’t bite.  Say it, why don’t you?”

She bit her lips and looked away.

“I wanted to ask something—­ask you to do something,” she said, after a minute.  And then hurriedly, as if she feared her courage might ebb and leave her stranded, “I wish you’d give me that—­jug!”

Sheer surprise held Ford silent, staring at her.

“I don’t ask many favors—­I wish you’d grant just that one.  I wouldn’t ask another.”

“What do you want of it?”

“Oh—­” she stopped, then plunged on recklessly.  “It’s getting on my nerves so!  And if you gave it to me, you wouldn’t have to fight the temptation—­”

“Why wouldn’t I?  There’s plenty more where that came from,” he reminded her.

“But it wouldn’t be right where you could get it any time the craving came.  Won’t you let me take it?” He had never before heard that tone from her; but he fought down the thrill of it and held himself rigidly calm.

“Oh, I don’t know—­the jug’s doing all right, where it is,” he evaded; what he wanted most was to get at her real object, and, man-like, to know beyond doubt whether she really cared.

“But you don’t—­you never touch it,” she urged.  “I know, because—­well, because every day I look into it!  I suppose you’ll say I have no right, that it’s spying, or something.  But I don’t care for that.  And I can see that it’s worrying you dreadfully.  And if you don’t drink any of it, why won’t you let me have it?”

“If I don’t drink it; what difference does it make who has it?” he countered.