Marjorie smiled.

“Thank you, little—­man,” and Jason grinned again, but his head was dizzy and he did not ride after the crowd.

“I’m afeerd fer this ole nag,” he lied to Colonel Pendleton, for he was faint at the stomach and the world had begun to turn around.  Then he made one clutch for the old nag’s mane, missed it, and rolled senseless to the ground.

Not long afterward he opened his eyes to find his head in the colonel’s lap, Marjorie bathing his forehead with a wet handkerchief, and Gray near by, still a little pale from remorse for his carelessness and Marjorie’s narrow escape, and Mavis the most unconcerned of all—­and he was much ashamed.  Rudely he brushed Marjorie’s consoling hand away and wriggled away from the colonel to his knees.

“Shucks!” he said, with great disgust.

The shadows were stretching fast, it was too late to try another field, so back they started through the radiant air, laughing, talking, bantering, living over the incidents of the day, the men with one leg swung for rest over the pommel of their saddles, the girls with habits disordered and torn, hair down, and all tired, but all flushed, clear-eyed, happy.  The leaves—­russet, gold and crimson—­were dropping to the autumn-greening earth, the sunlight was as yellow as the wings of a butterfly, and on the horizon was a faint haze that shadowed the coming Indian summer.  But still it was warm enough for a great spread on the lawn, and what a feast for mountain eyes—­chicken, turkey, cold ham, pickles, croquettes, creams, jellies, beaten biscuits.  And what happy laughter and thoughtful courtesy and mellow kindness—­particularly to the little mountain pair, for in the mountains they had given the Pendletons the best they had and now the best was theirs.  Inside fires were being lighted in the big fireplaces, and quiet, solid, old-fashioned English comfort everywhere the blaze brought out.

Already two darky fiddlers were waiting on the back porch for a dram, and when the darkness settled the fiddles were talking old tunes and nimble feet were busy.  Little Jason did his wonderful dancing and Gray did his; and round about, the window-seats and the tall columns of the porch heard again from lovers what they had been listening to for so long.  At midnight the hunters rode forth again in pairs into the crisp, brilliant air and under the kindly moon, Mavis jogging along beside Jason on Marjorie’s pony, for Marjorie would not have it otherwise.  No wonder that Mavis loved the land.

“I jerked the gal outen the way,” explained Jason, “’cause she was a gal an’ had no business messin’ with men folks.”

“Of co’se,” Mavis agreed, for she was just as contemptuous as he over the fuss that had been made of the incident.

“But she ain’t afeerd o’ nothin’.”

This was a little too much.

“I ain’t nuther.”

“Co’se you ain’t.”

There was no credit for Mavis—­her courage was a matter of course; but with the stranger-girl, a “furriner”—­that was different.  There was silence for a while.