spring sunshine, passing them with wind-flushed cheeks and dark,
incurious eyes, while her powerful horse carried her on, away through
the quivering light and shadow of the woodland vista.

"Is _that_ the person?"

"Y-es," she faltered. "Was I wrong?"

"Quite wrong, Miss Southerland."

"But--but you said you had seen her here this morning!"

"Yes, I have."

"Did you speak to her before you met me?"

"No--not before I met you."

"Then you have not spoken to her. Is she still here in the Park?"

"Yes, she is still here."

The girl turned on him excitedly: "Do you mean to say that you will not
speak to her?"

"I had rather not--"

"And your happiness depends on your speaking?"

"Yes."