A white figure, framed in the black mouth of the bridge, startled rider
and horse.

"It's only Clare," she said. "I heard you were up the river to-day, and
I've been waiting for you."

He rode closer. It was a new and strange Clare who was revealed to him
in the dim light. She was gowned and gloved, and her broad hat hid her
boyish curls. She walked out of the gloom and leaned against the bridge
rail.

"Ah, the little playmate did ride away from me forever!" he cried,
looking her up and down. "But this young lady--why, she takes my breath
away!" He took off his hat and bowed to the pommel.

"You needn't make fun of me, Mr. Harlan Thornton," she returned,
crisply. "And a real young lady wouldn't come down in this bridge and
wait for you. I wanted to tell you I'm glad. I hear all about your
success. When I was a little girl I didn't want you to go away and be a
big man. But now that I'm a woman I'm glad you're going. I wanted you to
realize, Mr. Harlan Thornton, that I'm a woman, so if you'll reach down
your hand I'll shake it and congratulate you."

He took her little hand in both his own.

"You were a real little woman two days ago right here in this place," he
said, gratefully. "I didn't realize it at that moment, but it was what
you said to me that put some real sense into my head, after all. It set
me to thinking."