“Ergo, a fellow shouldn’t ride in,” she retorted, with a composure positively wicked, considering my feelings.  “Though it does seem that a fellow rather enjoys going straight on through, regardless of anything; promises, for instance.”

That was the gauntlet I’d been hoping for.  From the minute I first saw her there it flashed upon me that she was astonished and indignant that night when she saw Frosty and me come charging through the pass, after me telling her I wouldn’t do it any more.  It looked to me like I’d have to square myself, so I was glad enough of the chance.

“Sometimes a fellow has to do things regardless of—­promises,” I explained.  “Sometimes it’s a matter of life and death.  If a fellow’s father, for instance—­”

“Oh, I know; Edith told me all about it.”  Her tone was curious, and while it did not encourage further explanations or apologies, it also lacked absolution of the offense I had committed.

I sat down in the grass, half-facing her to better my chance of a look into her eyes.  I was consumed by a desire to know if they still had the power to send crimply waves all over me.  For the rest, she was prettier even than I remembered her to be, and I could fairly see what little sense or composure I had left slide away from me.  I looked at her fatuously, and she looked speculatively at a sharp ridge of the divide as if that sketch were the only thing around there that could possibly interest her.

“Why do you spend every summer out here in the wilderness?” I asked, feeling certain that nothing but speech could save me from going hopelessly silly.

She turned her eyes calmly toward me, and—­their power had not weakened, at all events.  I felt as if I had taken hold of a battery with all the current turned on.

“Why, I suppose I like it here in summer.  You’re here, yourself; don’t you like it?”

I wanted to say something smart, there, and I have thought of a dozen bright remarks since; but at the time I couldn’t think of a blessed thing that came within a mile of being either witty or epigrammatic.  Love-making was all new to me, and I saw right then that I wasn’t going to shine.  I finally did remark that I should like it better if her father would be less belligerent and more peaceful as a neighbor.

“You told me, last summer, that you enjoyed keeping up the feud,” she reminded, smiling whimsically down at me.

She made a wrong play there; she let me see that she did remember some things that I said.  It boosted my courage a notch.

“But that was last summer,” I countered.  “One can change one’s view-point a lot in twelve months.  Anyway, you knew all along that I didn’t mean a word of it.”

“Indeed!” It was evident that she didn’t quite like having me take that tone.

“Yes, ’indeed’!” I repeated, feeling a rebellion against circumstances and at convention growing stronger within me.  Why couldn’t I put her on my horse and carry her off and keep her always?  I wondered crazily.  That was what I wanted to do.