He had never seen her so tense, so vehement, so warmly impulsive before.  Nor so radiantly beautiful.

“Do you know,” she was running on, swiftly, “how it happened that you were selected to ride with me to-day?”

“No.  At first I thought merely because you wanted to humiliate me.  Now I am beginning to believe that you sent for me to instruct me in certain matters relative to the brotherhood of man!”

“And you were not right at first, and are not right now.  I asked Brayley to let me have a man to help me with something I have to do over in the valley, and he said he would send you.  Do you guess why?”

“No.  It was a kindness from Brayley, and I am not in the habit of expecting kindnesses from him.”

“Then I will tell you.  He sent you because you are the only man he has working under him whom he could spare. Because he needs all the good men!”

Conniston felt his face go red.  He tried to laugh at what she said, to show her that it mattered little to him what a man of Brayley’s type said or thought.  And he was angry with himself because he knew that it did matter.  Biting back the words which first sprang to his lips, he tried to say, lightly: 

“I’m afraid that I shall have to lick Brayley for that.”

“Lick him!” Again she laughed her disdain.  “Why didn’t you do it that first night in the bunk-house?  Unless,” she challenged, “in spite of all your blue blood and white hands and father’s name, Brayley is the better man!”

“What do you know of that?” His voice was harsh, his question a command for an answer.  “Who told you?”

“I knew there was trouble.  I asked about it.  Brayley told me.”

He made no answer.  There was nothing for him to say.  She had Brayley’s account of the fight, she believed it, and Conniston would not let her know that he cared enough to give his own version.

“I have not meant to be unkind, Mr. Conniston,” she said, after a moment.  A new note had crept into her voice with what sounded like sympathy.  He did not look toward her.  “And, after all, it is none of my concern how you think, how you carry yourself.  But I did want you to realize just what that great handicap is.  You said on that day when you first came to the Half Moon that you were going to make yourself my friend, didn’t you?  Do you mind if I talk to you now like a friend?  You may call me presumptuous if you like.  No doubt I am.  As a friend I have a right to be meddlesome, haven’t I?” She smiled at him as brightly as if she had never said or thought the things which she had flung at him a moment ago.  “To begin with, then, I think that you have deep down in some corner of your being a strength which might do great things, that nature intended you to be a man, a great, big, splendid man!”

“Thanks,” murmured Conniston, dryly.  “I don’t know what I have done to deserve—­”