Then he smiled at her for yielding, and his smile was a revelation to the girl, and brought the blood surging up to her face.

She rode meekly beside him at the pace he himself set--which was not rapid, by any means.

He watched her with quick, sidelong glances, and wondered whether he would dare say what he wanted to say--or at least a part of it.
She was gazing with a good deal of perseverance at the trail, down the windings of which the others could be seen now and then galloping through the dust, so that their progress was marked always by a smothering cloud of gray.

Then she looked at Grant unexpectedly, met one of his sharp glances, and flushed hotly again.
"How about this business of hating each other, and not speaking except to please Aunt Phoebe ?" he demanded, with a suddenness which startled himself.

He had been thinking it, but he hadn't intended to say it until the words spoke themselves.