"I started out on him to look for you, expecting to ride him to the Pacific, and maybe double back. I didn't know where I'd have to go, but I intended to go on till I found you."
"It seemed almost a joke," she said, "that we were so near each other and you didn't know it."
She laughed, not seeming to feel the seriousness of it as he felt it. It is the woman who laughs always in these little life-comedies of ours.
"I'll give him to you, Grace, when he picks up again. Any other horse will do me now. He carried me to the end of my road; he brought me to you."
She turned her head, and he hadn't the courage in him to look and see whether it was to hide a smile.
"You don't know me, Duke; maybe you wouldn't—maybe you'll regret you ever started out to find me at all."
His courage came up again; he leaned a little nearer, laying his hand on hers where it rested on her saddle-horn.
"You wanted me to come, didn't you, Grace?"
"I hoped you might come sometime, Duke."
He rode with her when she set out to return home to the little valley where he had interposed to prevent a tragedy between her and Vesta Philbrook. Neither of them spoke of that encounter. It was avoided in silence as a thing of which both were ashamed.