"What, another favor?"

"Of course. Who ever heard of one favor?"

"To be sure! What is the second?"

"I want that you should be a little sorry when all this comes to an
end."

"You mean when we leave Chamouni?"

"Yes."

"I shall be sorry then," said Miss Ruth frankly, "but I am not going to
be sorry beforehand."

There was something very sweet to Lynde in her candor, but there was
also something that restrained him for the moment from being as explicit
as he had intended. He rode on awhile without speaking, watching the
girl as the mule now and then turned the sharp angle of the path and
began a new ascent. This movement always brought her face to face with
him a moment--she on the grade above, and he below. Miss Ruth had grown
accustomed to the novel situation, and no longer held on by the pommel
of the saddle. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, pliantly
lending herself to the awkward motion of the animal. Over her usual
travelling-habit she had thrown the long waterproof which reached to her
feet. As she sat there in a half-listless attitude, she was the very
picture of the Queen of Sheba seated upon Deacon Twombly's mare. Lynde
could not help seeing it; but he was schooling himself by degrees to