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“Thank you, but I INSIST upon getting down.”

It was Miss Porter’s voice. This was followed by a rapid, half-restrained interchange of words between Hornsby and the driver. Then the latter said, gruffly,–

“If the lady wants to ride inside, let her.”

Miss Porter fluttered to the ground. She was followed by Hornsby. “Just a minit, Miss,” he expostulated, half shamedly, half brusquely, “ye don’t onderstand me. I only–“

But Miss Porter had jumped into the coach.

Hornsby placed his hand on the handle of the door. Miss Porter grasped it firmly from the inside. There was a slight struggle.

All of which was part of a dream to the boyish Cass. But he awoke from it–a man! “Do you,” he asked, in a voice he scarcely recognized himself,–“Do you want this man inside?”

“No!”

Cass caught at Hornsby’s wrist like a young tiger. But alas! what availed instinctive chivalry against main strength? He only succeeded in forcing the door open in spite of Miss Porter’s superior strategy, and–I fear I must add, muscle also–and threw himself passionately at Hornsby’s throat, where he hung on and calmly awaited dissolution. But he had, in the onset, driven Hornsby out into the road and the moonlight.

“Here! Somebody take my lines.” The voice was “Mountain Charley’s,” the driver. The figure that jumped from the box and separated the struggling men belonged to this singularly direct person.

“You’re riding inside?” said Charley, interrogatively, to Cass. Before he could reply Miss Porter’s voice came from the window.

“He is!”

Charley promptly bundled Cass into the coach.

“And YOU?” to Hornsby, “onless you’re kalkilatin’ to take a little ‘pasear’ you’re booked OUTSIDE. Get up.”

It is probable that Charley assisted Mr. Hornsby as promptly to his seat, for the next moment the coach was rolling on.

Meanwhile Cass, by reason of his forced entry, had been deposited in Miss Porter’s lap, whence, freeing himself, he had attempted to climb over the middle seat, but in the starting of the coach was again thrown heavily against her hat and shoulder; all of which was inconsistent with the attitude of dignified reserve he had intended to display. Miss Porter, meanwhile, recovered her good humor.

“What a brute he was, ugh!” she said, retying the ribbons of her bonnet under her square chin, and smoothing out her linen duster.

Cass tried to look as if he had forgotten the whole affair. “Who? Oh, yes I see!” he responded, absently.

“I suppose I ought to thank you,” she went on with a smile, “but you know, really, I could have kept him out if you hadn’t pulled his wrist from outside. I’ll show you. Look! Put your hand on the handle there! Now, I’ll hold the lock inside firmly. You see, you can’t turn the catch!”

She indeed held the lock fast. It was a firm hand, yet soft–their fingers had touched over the handle–and looked white in the moonlight. He made no reply, but sank back again in his seat with a singular sensation in the fingers that had touched hers. He was in the shadow, and, without being seen, could abandon his reserve and glance at her face. It struck him that he had never really seen her before. She was not so tall as she had appeared to be. Her eyes were not large, but her pupils were black, moist, velvety, and so convex as to seem embossed on the white. She had an indistinctive nose, a rather colorless face–whiter at the angles of the mouth and nose through the relief of tiny freckles like grains of pepper. Her mouth was straight, dark, red, but moist as her eyes. She had drawn herself into the corner of the back seat, her wrist put through and hanging over the swinging strap, the easy lines of her plump figure swaying from side to side with the motion of the coach. Finally, forgetful of any presence in the dark corner opposite, she threw her head a little farther back, slipped a trifle lower, and placing two well-booted feet upon the middle seat, completed a charming and wholesome picture.