"No!" she flashed, "I am sure of nothing, certainly of nothing a man will say or do!"
"It is no time for such words," said Montague; "you know I love you, I could never tell you how much! Day by day I might show you, prove to you—
"I believe," he flushed a little as he spoke, "I could make you happy. But I must give you this opportunity; if there has been any mistake you—you can turn back.
"Only if you wish." He had begun with renunciation; manlike he was ending with pleading. "We have been so happy," he pleaded. He saw the tremble of her lip, "I believe, I believe I could make you happy," he pleaded the old words again.
The reins hung loosened on Starlight's neck, Montague's hand slipped along the horse's mane until it rested on hers.
"Knows so little, knows so little!" rang a voice in Frances' ears. She stole a glance at him as he waited. She knew, looking through veiled lids, the lithe figure, the strong, earnest face and grave, serious eyes; knew his sunny nature, his strength, his clean, honest love for her. She remembered the agony of the day she thought him dead; she remembered the joy of finding him alive; she remembered the happiness of the days afterward—for they had been happy.
"Frances!" he pleaded, "I am waiting."
She straightened herself in her saddle, and picked up the reins. There was a demure smile on her red lips, and a flash of amusement in the dark eyes the young man could not see for the drooping lashes.
"Suppose we take the road ahead and ride around the other way home—then," with a careless look along the road behind her, "then we need not turn back."
THE END