“I truly never loved Mary at all; I liked her, and we used to have great fun together. But we were only children then, you know!”

She saw one of the hands that enfolded her; the sleeve of his coat was drawn up slightly, disclosing the clear white of the skin and the deep line of tan at the wrist. She ventured to look at his face—the side of it turned toward her; it was as tanned as his hand. Something more than admiration shone in her brown eyes.

“And now you think you are a big man!”

“I am older,” he said, simply.

“And was that—that the reason why you tamed my mustang that day, so that he wouldn’t be killed? Because you loved me? I’ve wondered about that.”

“That was the reason; but I was anxious, too, to save him.”

She was silent again, as if pondering this.

“I’ve though. . . Read More