humiliated her.

"Well," she said resolutely, "something must be done. If the strayed
sheep could be found, it would help."

"Yes," said Kit. "Tom and I start for Swinset to-morrow to try to bring
them back. But if you'll wait a moment, I'll open the gate."

He walked through the mud the cattle had churned up, and, lifting the
broken gate, pushed it back so that Grace could cross a drier spot. Then,
as he stood with his hands on the rotten bars, she stopped.

"Don't start for Swinset until you hear from me," she said. "Thank you.
Good night!"

Grace went on and Kit turned back to the farm with a satisfaction that
made his heart beat. In a way, the girl had given him her confidence;
she had, at least, not hidden her feelings. Her proud calm was only on
the surface; it covered a generous, impulsive nature. Then she had
pluck, because he could understand her difficulties. She was loyal to
her father, but hated injustice and was quickly moved to sympathy. All
the same, he had noted that when she spoke of Osborn renewing the
lease she said we, and since he knew why she had done so, it gave him
cause to think.

It was the code of the old school; the family stood together, a compact
unit to which she belonged and for whose deeds she believed herself
accountable. In a sense, this was rather fine; but Kit, knowing Osborn's
pride, saw it would confine their friendship to narrow limits. Still he
had no ground for imagining she was his friend, and he tried to fix his