you're going to ride--and I'm going to walk--back to the hotel."

"Well, I am not!" snapped Barton. "Well, you are not!" he protested
vehemently. "For Heaven's sake, Miss Edgarton, why don't you go
scooting back on the gray and send a wagon or something for me?"

"Why, because it would make--such a fuss," droned little Eve Edgarton
drearily. "Doors would bang--and lights would blaze--and somebody'd
scream--and--and--you make so much fuss when you're born," she said,
"and so much fuss when you die--don't you think it's sort of nice to
keep things as quietly to yourself as you can all the rest of your
days?"

"Yes, of course," acknowledged Barton. "But--"

"But NOTHING!" stamped little Eve Edgarton with sudden
passion. "Oh, Mr. Barton--won't you please hurry! It's almost dawn
now! And the nice hotel cook is very sick in a cot bed. And I promised
her faithfully this noon that I'd make four hundred muffins for
breakfast!"

"Oh, confound it!" said Barton.

Stumblingly he reached the big gray's side.

"But it's miles!" he protested in common decency. "Miles!--and miles!
Rough walking, too, darned rough! And your poor little feet--"

"I don't walk particularly with my 'poor little feet,'" gibed Eve
Edgarton. "Most especially, thank you, Mr. Barton, I walk with my big