for the first time in his experience, he couldn't hit upon the thing to
say. "Good-afternoon" seemed to him too banal, commonplace; and he
could think of nothing else for a moment. However, it came at last.

"Will you be so good as to tell me if I am far from Carysford?" he
asked.

"Four miles and three-quarters by the road, three miles over the hill,"
she replied, slowly, as calmly as she had looked at him, and in a voice
low and sweet, and with a ring, a tone, in it which in some indefinable
way harmonised with her appearance. It was quite unlike the
conventional girl's voice; there rang in it the freedom of the lonely
valley, the towering hills, the freedom and unconventionality of the
girl's own figure and face and wind-tossed hair; and in it was a note
of dignity, of independence, and of a pride which was too proud for
defiance. In its way the voice was as remarkable as the beauty of the
face, the soft fire of the dark eyes.

"I had no idea it was so far," said Stafford; "I must have wandered
away from the place. I started fishing on the road down below, and
haven't noticed the distance. Will you tell me the name of this place?"

"Herondale," she replied.

"Thank you," said Stafford. "It's a grand valley and a splendid
stream." She leant forward with her elbow on the saddle and her chin in
the small gauntletted hand, looked up the valley absently and then back
at him, with a frank speculation in her eyes which was too frank and
calm to be flattering, and was, indeed, somewhat embarrassing.