“I advise you, sir, to turn my horse’s head in the other direction, and warn you that you will make less by threats than by trusting to my good will.”
“I reject your advice, Miss Berrington. The philanthropy of your family is well-known and widely advertised. Your good deeds rise up and call you blessed; but I am not an object of charity, although I may look it. The sum which I demand I shall exact by coercion.”
“Oh, very well. Set about it, then. Pray do not allow me to hinder you in the least.”
“Thank you, Miss Berrington; you shall not.” Placing the riding rein over his arm, he turned his back upon her and led the horse along the level towards the west for perhaps half a mile further, when he deflected to the right until they arrived at the top of a high cliff overlooking the lake. Neither had spoken a word during the journey, and Constance Berrington sat very rigidly on her led horse, like a clothed Lady Godiva, sans the beauty. The look of discontent, however, had vanished from her face, and the expression which took its place was not unpleasing.
At the cliff her leader stopped, swung round, and said gruffly, “Get down!” without, however, making any offer to assist her.
She sprang lightly from the saddle to the ground and stood there, as if awaiting further commands.
“Seat yourself on that log.”
A fallen tree which one of the winter storms had uprooted lay with its branches far out over the chasm. The girl sat down on the trunk as she had been directed. “I am John Steele, of Chicago,” he said.
“That does not interest me,” replied the young woman. “Have you ever heard the name before?”
“No, and don’t wish to hear it again.”