Lucy'd never sleep at night if she lied." Aunt Jane returned to her housewifely tasks, leaving Bostil thoughtfully stroking the hound and watching the fire.

Presently Lucy returned--a different Lucy--one that did not rouse his rider's pride, but thrilled his father's heart.

She had been a slim, lithe, supple, disheveled boy, breathing the wild spirit of the open and the horse she rode.

She was now a girl in the graceful roundness of her slender form, with hair the gold of the sage at sunset, and eyes the blue of the deep haze of distance, and lips the sweet red of the upland rose.

And all about her seemed different.
"Lucy--you look--like--like she used to be," said Bostil, unsteadily.
"My mother!" murmured Lucy.
But these two, so keen, so strong, so alive, did not abide long with sad memories.
"Lucy, I want to ask you somethin'," said Bostil, presently.