"Not a bit," Angus lied cheerfully.
"Yes, you are. There, you see, you're almost too stiff to walk. I won't have it, Angus, really I won't."
Angus did not argue the point further. He was accustomed to having his own way with girls, or at least with Jean. He was sore and stiff, and when he first moved a sharp pain in his side made him catch his breath, but he knew that the best cure for stiffness is movement. They crossed the creek and he saddled Chief, and without a word began to take up the stirrups.
"Angus," said Faith Winton, "I meant what I told you. I rode your pony years ago, when I was a little, lost girl—"
"What are you now?"
"A pedestrian," she said with determination.
"Now, see," Angus urged. "It's over five miles. Your shoes would be cut to pieces on the rocks, and you'd be tired out. So you're going to ride."
"I'm not, Angus! What are you—Oh!"
For Angus, finding that argument was a waste of time had picked her up and put her in the saddle. Thence she stared down at him, and now there was no lack of color in her cheeks.
"Angus Mackay! What—what do you mean?"