She spurred Sarchedon into a run and tore through the sage, down into the valley, running him harder than she should have run him.

Then she checked him, and, penitent, petted him out of all proportion to her thoughtlessness.

The violent exercise only heated her blood and, if anything, increased this sudden and new torment.

Why had she discarded her boy's rider outfit and chaps for a riding-habit made by her aunt, and one she had scorned to wear?
Some awful, accusing voice thundered in Lucy's burning ears that she had done this because she was ashamed to face Lin Slone any more in that costume--she wanted to appear different in his eyes, to look like a girl.

If that shameful suspicion was a fact why was it---what did it mean?
She could not tell, yet she was afraid of the truth.
All of a sudden Lin Slone stood out clearer in her mental vision--the finest type of a rider she had ever known--a strong, lithe, magnificent horseman, whose gentleness showed his love for horses, whose roughness showed his power--a strange, intense, lonely man in whom she had brought out pride, gratitude, kindness, passion, and despair.