"Florence," Ben threw one leg over the pommel of his saddle and faced his companion squarely, "I've heard your mother talk, and of course I understand why she wants to go back among her folks, but you were raised here. Why do you want to leave?"
The girl hesitated, and ran her fingers through her horse's mane.
"Mamma's been here against her will for a good many years. We ought to go for her sake."
Ben made a motion of deprecation. "What I want to know is the real reason,—your own reason," he said.
The warm blood flushed Florence's face. "By what right do you ask that?" she retorted. "You seem to forget that we've both grown up since we went to school together."
Ben looked calmly out over the prairie.
"No, I don't forget; and I admit I have no right to ask. But I may ask as a friend, I am sure. Why do you want to go?"
Again the girl hesitated. Logically she should refuse to answer. To do otherwise was to admit that her first answer was an evasion; but something, an influence that always controlled her in Ben's presence, prevented refusal. Slow of speech, deliberate of movement as he was, there was about him a force that dominated her, even as she dominated her parents, and, worst of all—to her inmost self she admitted the fact—it fascinated her as well. With all her strength she rebelled against the knowledge and combated the influence, but in vain. Instead of replying, she chirruped to her horse. "It seems to me," she said, "it's just as well to begin hunting here as to go further. I'm going on ahead to ask papa and Mr. Rankin."
With a grave smile, Blair reached over and caught her bridle-rein, saying carelessly: "Pardon me, but you forget something you were going to tell me."
The girl's brown cheeks crimsoned anew, but this time there was no hesitation in her reply.