This morning she espied Slone at his outlook on a high rock that had fallen from the great walls.  She always looked to see if he was there, and she always saw him.  The days she had not come, which were few, he had spent watching for her there.  His tasks were not many, and he said he had nothing to do but wait for her.  Lucy had a persistent and remorseful, yet sweet memory of Slone at his lonely lookout.  Here was a fine, strong, splendid young man who had nothing to do but watch for her—­a waste of precious hours!

She waved her hand from afar, and he waved in reply.  Then as she reached the cedared part of the pass Slone was no longer visible.  She put Sarchedon to a run up the hard, wind-swept sand, and reached the camp before Slone had climbed down from his perch.

Lucy dismounted reluctantly.  What would he say about the riding-habit that she wore?  She felt very curious to learn, and shyer than ever before, and altogether different.  The skirt made her more of a girl, it seemed.

“Hello, Lin!” she called.  There was nothing in her usual greeting to betray the state of her mind.

“Good mornin’—­Lucy,” he replied, very slowly.  He was looking at her, she thought, with different eyes.  And he seemed changed, too, though he had long been well, and his tall, lithe rider’s form, his lean, strong face, and his dark eyes were admirable in her sight.  Only this morning, all because she had worn a girl’s riding-skirt instead of boy’s chaps, everything seemed different.  Perhaps her aunt had been right, after all, and now things were natural.

Slone gazed so long at her that Lucy could not keep silent.  She laughed.

“How do you like—­me—­in this?”

“I like you much better,” Slone said, bluntly.

“Auntie made this—­and she’s been trying to get me to ride in it.”

“It changes you, Lucy. . . .  But can you ride as well?”

“I’m afraid not. . . .  What’s Wildfire going to think of me?”

“He’ll like you better, too. . . .  Lucy, how’s the King comin’ on?”

“Lin, I’ll tell you, if I wasn’t as crazy about Wildfire as you are, I’d say he’ll have to kill himself to beat the King,” replied Lucy, with gravity.

“Sometimes I doubt, too,” said Slone.  “But I only have to look at Wildfire to get back my nerve. . . .  Lucy, that will be the grandest race ever run!”

“Yes,” sighed Lucy.

“What’s wrong?  Don’t you want Wildfire to win?”

“Yes and no.  But I’m going to beat the King, anyway. . . .  Bring on your Wildfire!”

Lucy unsaddled Sarchedon and turned him loose to graze while Slone went out after Wildfire.  And presently it appeared that Lucy might have some little time to wait.  Wildfire had lately been trusted to hobbles, which fact made it likely that he had strayed.