But close behind her and then abreast of her rode her rescuer.
"I must see how he goes at first," he apologized, and the mastery of his tone added to Frances' discomfiture.
She rode with crimson cheeks and downcast eyes, a square—two; she could stand it no longer; she drew rein at the corner.
"I thank you very much," she said as courteously as she could; "I am going this way," and she turned off.
She took the quietest way home in bitterness of spirit. Never could there have been a worse moment for such adventure. The affair would be known from town to farm, from farm to mountain top, by sunset. There was the spice of danger in it that would insure its telling, and the talk would lose nothing by its many recitals. It would be told to the young man's advantage, too. None of the glory would redound to her. There was no excuse for her being where she had been, no pardon for such an escapade. It would be made the point even for a parent's caution. The thought was maddening.
She crept to her room, glad to close the home doors about her. Susan found her there.
"Yo' pa done 'phoned up dis bery minute he's gwine bring company home ter dinnah."
"Very well!" said Frances spiritlessly.
"Wants ter hab anything 'ticular?"