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chance at present of indulging in any sort of out-door amusement beyond an occasional dip in the surf from the town bathing-sheds. But later perhaps! And of course as her thoughts strayed in this fashion back to her first riding lesson, the vision of Rodney Marsh walking at Nigger’s shoulder was a clear, little sun-bright picture in her mind.

Mrs. Hill’s husband stood in the vestibule, waiting to escort his wife home, at the close of the performance. They would see Ann safely to her door on their way. But as he joined them Ann suddenly looked up to discover Rodney Marsh’s eyes upon her. He also, it seemed, had been amongst the audience. A movement of the crowd brought them nearer to one another, and a little apart from the Hills.

“Good evening,” said Ann. “I suppose you’re going on to Hawkeston tomorrow?”

Her voice showed no trace of anything save a natural friendliness.

“Yes,” he answered; and then after a moment went on in a lower tone: “Are you with a party?”

“I brought Mrs. Hill. She and her husband are standing over there. They’re waiting to see me home.”

“Let them go on. I’m walking your way.”

“Very well.”

Ann’s voice was still perfectly natural, but she knew that her heart was beating faster. She told herself she was a fool to assent to this arrangement. What good could come of any renewed intimacy with Rodney Marsh? And yet the temptation to be with him—to talk to him again—if only for a few minutes, was too great to be resisted.

She signaled to the Hills.

“A friend is seeing me home. Don’t wait.”