He was twenty-two years old when he fell in love with Ethel Harvey. She
was nineteen when she came home from the Eastern school where she had
spent the past five years, and she burst upon Jim in the first glory of
her womanhood. When she had grown an old woman the young girls still
envied her beauty, and wondered what it must have been in its first bloom.
Small wonder that Jim fell in love with her; it was inevitable.

He first saw her, after her return, on a bright June morning as he was
strolling down the path from his grandfather's house to the street. She
was riding her big bay mare at a smart gallop, but she pulled up short at
sight of him, and drawing off a riding gauntlet held out her hand. From
that moment Jim loved her. The old man was coming down the path, but
seeing them there together, he paused, for they made a striking picture.
Her little silk hat sat daintily on her hair, which would be rebellious
and fluffy; the dark green riding habit with its tight sleeves revealed
the perfect lines of her lithe figure, which swayed gracefully as the mare
pawed and backed and plunged, impatient for the morning gallop. She seemed
quite indifferent to the protests of the big brute, and talked merrily to
Jim, who stood looking up at her in bewildered admiration. At last she
shook hands again and rode away, and Jonathan Weeks walked back into the
house with a satisfied smile. "They'll do," he said.

It looked as though they would. Through the short happy weeks that
followed, Ethel did not ride alone. Together they explored the country
lanes or left them for a dash straight across the fields, taking anything
that chanced to be in the way. In their impromptu races, which were
frequent, Ethel almost always won; for racer though he was, Jim's sorrel
found the two hundred and eight pounds he carried too much of a handicap.
So the days went by, and though nothing was said about it, they talked to
each other, and thought of each other, as lovers do.