desperately at his dignity, he swallowed an abject apology and retreated
into the office.

Miss Whitmore followed him a few steps, thought better of it, and paced
the platform self-pityingly for ten minutes, at the end of which the
Flying U rig whirled up in a cloud of dust, and the agent hurried out
to help with the two trunks, and the mandolin and guitar in their canvas
cases.

The creams circled fearsomely up to the platform and stood quivering
with eagerness to be off, their great eyes rolling nervously. Miss
Whitmore took her place beside Chip with some inward trepidation
mingled with her relief. When they were quite ready and the reins
loosened suggestively, Pet stood upon her hind feet with delight and
Polly lunged forward precipitately.

The girl caught her breath, and Chip eyed her sharply from the corner
of his eye. He hoped she was not going to scream--he detested screaming
women. She looked young to be a doctor, he decided, after that
lightning survey. He hoped to goodness she wasn't of the Sweet Young
Thing order; he had no patience with that sort of woman. Truth to tell,
he had no patience with ANY sort of woman.

He spoke to the horses authoritatively, and they obeyed and settled
to a long, swinging trot that knew no weariness, and the girl's heart
returned to its normal action.

Two miles were covered in swift silence, then Miss Whitmore brought
herself to think of the present and realized that the young man beside
her had not opened his lips except to speak once to his team. She