“You’re getting ready to go away, Florence,” he went on, “leaving this country where you’ve spent almost your life, changing it for an uncertainty.  Don’t do it—­not for my sake, but for your own.  You know nothing of the city, its pleasures, its rush, its excitement, its ambitions.  Granted that you’ve been there, that we’ve both been there; but we were only children then and couldn’t see beneath the thinnest surface.  Yet there must be something beneath the glitter, something you’ve never thought of and cannot realize; something which makes the life hateful to those who have felt and known it.  I don’t know what it is, you don’t; but it must be there.  If it weren’t so, why would men like your father, like Mr. Rankin, college men, men of wealth, men who have seen the world, leave the city and come here to stay?  They were born in cities, raised in cities.  The city was a part of their life; but they left it, and are glad.”  The man clasped the little hand more tightly, shook it gently.  “Florence, are you listening?”

“Yes, I’m listening.”

“I repeat then, don’t go.  You belong here.  This life is your life.  Everything that is best for your happiness you will find here.  You spoke the other day of your birthright—­to love and to be loved—­as though this could only be realized in a city.  Do you think I don’t care for you as much as though my home were in a town?”

Passive, motionless, Florence listened, feeling the subtle sympathy which ever existed between her and this boy-man drawing them closer together.  His strong magnetism, never before so potent, gripped her almost like a physical force.  His personality, original, masterful, convincing, fascinated her.  For the time the tacit consent of her position never occurred to her.  It seemed but natural and fitting that he should hold her hand.  She had no desire to speak or move, merely to listen.

“Florence,” the voice was very near now, and very low.  “Florence, I love you.  I can’t have you go away, can’t have you pass out of my life.  I’ll do anything for you,—­live for you, die for you, fight for you, slave for you,—­anything but give you up.”  Of a sudden his arms were about her, his lips touched her cheek.  “Can’t you love me in return?  Speak to me, tell me—­for I love you, Florence!”

The girl started, and drew away involuntarily.  “Oh, don’t, don’t! please don’t!” she pleaded.  The dream faded, and she awoke to the reality of her position.  The brown head bowed, dropped into her hands.  Her whole body shook.  “Oh, what have I done!” she sobbed.  “Oh, what have I done!  Oh—­oh—­oh—­”

For a time, neither of them realized nor cared how long, they sat side by side, though separate now.  Warmly and brightly as before, the sun shone down upon them.  A breath of breeze, born of the heated earth, wandered gently over the land.  The big thoroughbred shifted on its feet and whinnied suggestively.