"Hurrah!" cried Indiana, entering the gate at full gallop, riding straddle, breathless, hatless, her yellow hair streaming behind her. Sitting aloft Circus, who was a tall horse, she looked like a little boy, a very young, tender, pretty boy, whose hair his mother could not yet bring herself to cut. She circled the mound in the centre of the garden, and pulled Circus up tightly at the steps. He reared at the suddenness of the check. Indiana sank forward on his neck, spent with her ride, and circled his head with her arms.
"No more tricks, Circus," she murmured. "The show's over; we're just beat out, Circus." Glen took her in his arms, and lifted her bodily off the horse. A stable boy led him away. His shining black coat was covered with flecks of foam.
"Give me a drink, someone!" said Indiana.
"Not now, Indiana," pleaded Mrs. Stillwater, "you're so warm."
"I'm parched, I tell you," said Indiana, stamping her foot, and pressing her hand to her throat.
Glen ran quickly to the well, and returned with the tin cup, which he held to Indiana's lips.
"Slowly," he said, holding the cup.
"It's warm," she said, snatching the cup, and spilling the remainder of the water.
"Why didn't you stop for me?" asked Glen.
"I wanted to ride alone," answered Indiana, sinking down on the step. "I wanted to think—"