“Lately it’s been getting to me,” I replied soberly.

We both gazed out over the sea of gray-green, at the undulating waves of ground in the distance.  On these rides with her I had learned to appreciate the beauty of the lonely reaches of plain.

But when I could look at her I seldom wasted time on scenery.  Looking at her now I tried to get again that impression of a difference in her.  It eluded me.

Just now with the rose in her brown cheeks, her hair flying, her eyes with grave instead of mocking light, she seemed only prettier than usual.  I got down ostensibly to tighten the saddle girths on her horse.  But I lingered over the task.

Presently, when she looked down at me, I received that subtle impression of change, and read it as her soft mood of dangerous sweetness that came so seldom, mingled with something deeper, more of character and womanliness than I had ever sensed in her.

“Russ, it wasn’t nice to tell Diane that,” she said.

“Nice!  It was—­oh, I’d like to swear!” I ejaculated.  “But now I understand my miserable feeling.  I was jealous, Sally, I’m sorry.  I apologize.”

She had drawn off her gloves, and one little hand, brown, shapely, rested upon her knee very near to me.  I took it in mine.  She let it stay, though she looked away from me, the color rich in her cheeks.

“I can forgive that,” she murmured.  “But the lie.  Jealousy doesn’t excuse a lie.”

“You mean—­what I intimated to your cousin,” I said, trying to make her look at me.  “That was the devil in me.  Only it’s true.”

“How can it be true when you never asked—­said a word—­you hinted of?” she queried.  “Diane believed what you said.  I know she thinks me horrid.”

“No she doesn’t.  As for what I said, or meant to say, which is the same thing, how’d you take my actions?  I hope not the same as you take Wright’s or the other fellow’s.”

Sally was silent, a little pale now, and I saw that I did not need to say any more about the other fellows.  The change, the difference was now marked.  It drove me to give in wholly to this earnest and passionate side of myself.

“Sally, I do love you.  I don’t know how you took my actions.  Anyway, now I’ll make them plain.  I was beside myself with love and jealousy.  Will you marry me?”

She did not answer.  But the old willful Sally was not in evidence.  Watching her face I gave her a slow and gentle pull, one she could easily resist if she cared to, and she slipped from her saddle into my arms.

Then there was one wildly sweet moment in which I had the blissful certainty that she kissed me of her own accord.  She was abashed, yet yielding; she let herself go, yet seemed not utterly unstrung.  Perhaps I was rough, held her too hard, for she cried out a little.

“Russ!  Let me go.  Help me—­back.”

I righted her in the saddle, although not entirely releasing her.