“That is easily remedied. I feared you must have been thrown,” said he. “Just mount my horse. He’s quiet. I’ll take you home.”
“But the saddle,” said Olive looking very anxiously at that burden.
“Oh! that’s nothing,” said the stranger. “I’ll carry it on my arm.”
“You must not dream of such a thing. I could not think of allowing it. You are very kind, I am sure, but if you would take up the saddle in front of you that is all I want. The saddle is the only difficulty. I can walk quite well. I live in that house over there on the brow of the bluff. It is not far, but I could not carry that terrible saddle.”
“Why, that’s Perfection City, where the Communists live,” said he, looking at her curiously.
“Yes, I live there,” replied Olive with a slight blush, noting the look.
“And are you a communist, if I may presume to ask the question?” queried the stranger.
“My husband was one of the founders of the—the—of Perfection City,” said Olive, valiantly determined to defend the absent.
“But you are not one of the original members. You are surely a new-comer. I know most of them, by sight at all events.”
“I am Mrs. Weston,” replied Olive with dignity.