Deering strolled off, rather disconsolately, in the direction of the dairy, Graham accompanying him as far as the stable, where he proceeded to put Barbara's saddle on the back of a sturdy cob, which from his immovable character had been named Sphinx.
The artist had visited the house several times since his first meeting with Millicent, and had promised to be her guide to the high hill-top, whence a view of the Sierra Nevadas was to be obtained. Up the narrow bridle path toiled the two horses, Graham's leading the way. The road was a difficult one, underbrush and rolling stones making it dangerous for any horse which was not sure-footed. Old Sphinx set his feet firmly on the solid ground, avoiding all pit-falls in a wary fashion. The air was sweet with the spicy breath of the madrone tree, whose dark red bark and brilliant glossy leaves gleamed out here and there through the darker foliage of the great redwoods. The young man turned his head over his shoulder, letting his mustang find out the path, and talked to his companion, who was not yet at home in the saddle. One of the new delights which the western country held for Millicent was that of riding. Most of her life had been spent in Venice; and she had had little opportunity for indulging in that most exhilarating exercise. Graham assured her that she would soon make a good rider, as she quickly learned to assume the graceful but uncomfortable position compelled by the side-saddle. She was without fear, having that sort of bravery which is found in some children, and which comes from an ignorance of danger.
From a point in the road whence a view of the happy valley was to be obtained, Graham reined in his horse. The wide, pleasant valley lay below them, the house, its central point of interest, standing surrounded by the orchard and garden. A brook wound like a silver ribbon through the wide fields and wooded groves, under rustic bridges, here and there breaking into foam over a mass of stone, or a sudden shelving of the land.
When they again started Graham dismounted, and, passing his arm through the bridle of his horse, took Sphinx by the rein and led him over the rough bit of country. Whether from an exaggerated idea of courtesy, or because the head covering was irksome, Graham doffed his hat and walked bareheaded, the little shafts of sunshine touching his dark hair with points of light. The tall girl noted the sun and shadow which made this and all else lovely on this fair afternoon. As the ascent became steeper, the trees were less dense and the path grew wider. Graham still walked beside her horse, though there was no longer need for him to do so. As they emerged upon a broad plateau Millicent drew her breath and touched Graham lightly with her whip, laying her finger on her lip and pointing to a little hillside spring, which ran dancing from the rich dark earth. Close to the spring stood a magnificent buck and a graceful doe. The stag had bent his head and was drinking from the basin which the water had worn for itself, and which was surrounded by a ring of green turf, jewelled with star blue and pale rose blossoms. Of this tender herbage, so different from the dried grass of the hillside and meadow, the dainty doe was nibbling little morsels. For a moment neither of the animals perceived the approach of the riders, and stood quite still in their unconscious beauty. Graham's hand instinctively sought the revolver in his pocket. As he was taking aim Millicent's velvet fingers closed about the steel barrel, and she cried aloud, "You could not be so cruel!"
At the sound of her voice the stag threw up his great head with a mighty shiver, tossing the crystal water drops from his nose. Before the last word was spoken the slender, dappled doe had flashed across the path and was out of sight, her mate with outstretched head following close upon her track. For an instant the flowing lines of the swift motion were seen on the sky background, and then the trembling leaves of the thicket into which they had penetrated were all that told of their flight.
"You are more tender-hearted than Miss Barbara."
"No, but I could not bear that those two glorious creatures should be put out of the warm sunlight which they love so well."
"Miss Barbara is an excellent shot; she could have killed the stag from this point."
"And yet Barbara is really much better-hearted than I, and feels other people's troubles as if they were her own. Everything is in habit and education; she has looked upon deer in the light of venison, as I have always considered oxen in the light of future beef. And yet, though Barbara is so kind and good, I do not find her simpatica--how shall I say?"
"You might say sympathetic or congenial, Miss Almsford, if you could content yourself with the English language."