XII ANYTHING IS FAIR IN LOVE...

The troop of three were retracing the course followed by Ned in his ride to the Glade. Trotting along the wet sand at the water's edge they had rounded the Pellawa end of the lake and were hugging the north shore, riding into the west at a spanking gait when Ned suddenly pulled Darkey and pointed up the sheer hill. A black speck was moving along the summit far above.

"Margaret! Behold!" was Ned's laughing shout.

The girls reined in abruptly and followed his hand.

"It is Andy!" cried Mary gaily. "I see where we lose our Gooseberry, promptly and automatically."

As she uttered the words a shout floated down from the silhouette above and the rider sent his mount over the bank. The brave brute took the precipice with a sure nonchalance, sliding on all fours or "sitting" the perpendicular slides with swift and perilous drop.

"Lucifer hits the toboggan!" cried Ned.

"The magnificent dare-devils!" exclaimed Mary, thrilled by the sight. In a moment it was over and Andy closed in upon them at a smart trot, reining his horse on his heels but a length before them.

"A mighty fine slide!" applauded Ned.

"Margaret can't peep," teased Mary. "Her heart's in her mouth."

Margaret acknowledged the newcomer with a sedate bow. Her voice was severely accusing as she said:

"Why do you find it necessary to skid that horrible hill on poor Night?"

"Just dropping into good company, Margaret," was the bright reply. "Night likes it."

"Very well! You are welcome to—the skidding," was the demure impertinence.

She turned from him to glance over the lake. Had Andy caught her eyes he would have seen deep down in their dark depths a gleam of exquisite pleasure. Good riding, and daring at that, could not fail to delight Margaret, and of this the wily Andy was well aware. A moment later he was enjoying her gay sallies as they rode side by side.

The four riders advanced abreast with the girls in the centre, the sound of their voices mingling with the champing of bits and the restless tramping of prancing hoofs. Suddenly, to their right, a gully opened up, winding its way into the hills. Andy caught Ned's eye flashing him some significant message. Ned instantly realized his intention and seizing Bobs' bridle turned abruptly into the gully. In the meantime Andy had adroitly directed Margaret's attention to a big loon basking in the water near the shore. They were well past the gully before she discovered that two of the party were missing. She halted Flash and looked blankly at Andy. With remarkable address he simulated her expression. She searched his nonplussed features critically, passing their fluctuations through her mental sieve.

"Two is company!" ejaculated Andy, shrugging his shoulders and looking back upon the empty trail.

"And three a crowd!" supplemented Margaret.

"And four a multitude!" completed Andy, a tone of satisfaction betraying him.

Margaret tipped her head a trifle haughtily and looked thoughtfully out over the lake.

"We have good company here, at any rate," ventured Andy.

Again Margaret gave him that searching glance. For a moment she studied him, then the glimmers of a whimsical mischief shone in her eyes and throwing back her head she laughed merrily.

"What transparent creatures you men are!" was her na?ve remark. "Obviously you and Ned arranged this sudden and innocent happening."

"How do you know?" challenged Andy boldly.

"How very like a man!" she cried, laughing quietly. "There you go confessing it. How do I know? Simply because Mary and I did not arrange it. It just happened. And Mary! I wonder. Was Mary kidnapped or is she an accomplice deep-dyed in guilt? Never mind. There's a loon on the water and two more on the shore. We'll go ahead to the Big Stone and wait for them."

So came Andy's opportunity, effected by his masterly strategy and the conniving Ned.

Their horses secured, they took seats in comfortable niches of the great stones and let their gaze sweep over the lake. A steady breeze fanned their faces and the water lapped musically about the base of the rock. It set Margaret musing.

"Do you hear it, Andy?" she cried. "I could stay here forever and dream of the sea. The sea is in my blood and—my heart,—always in my heart. I have but to shut my eyes and I am a wild, free Norse-girl tossing on the deep, or—a bold pirate."

"Pirate is better," said Andy with a grin. "You are always stealing something from me—secrets and other things. These dead Norse maidens appear to better advantage these days among the zoological collections of infamous old bones in famous old museums."

Margaret looked up severe and shocked.

"Thank you!" said she with dignity. "You have an affectionate regard for my ancient ancestors."

"None whatever!" retorted Andy. "Not a little bit. They are animals of another and stonier age. Give me a nice living girl with plenty of breath in her body and a soft heart,—one with a laugh in her eyes and her soul, who can loll comfortably on a rock and revel dreamily in sheer langour and laziness; a girl for instance like Margaret Grant."

"You don't like me when I'm poetic—rapt."

"Don't I? How like a woman! You want me to confess that I am mad about you. But I will not, for I am not—not the very slightest."

Margaret glanced up curiously, a smile playing about her lips.

"The fact is, Margaret," continued Andy, "I do like you—just you, in any mood, at any time and on any condition. It is not a foolish, mad regard; just a cool, composed, deliberate but fatal, tremendously fatal affection."

"Why fatal, Andy? I don't like the word."

"Take a look at me. Can you not see doom written all over me?"

Margaret looked. Their eyes met. She smiled whimsically.

"You look for all the world like a Norseman ready for Valhalla. But you are a very live and hopeful and preposterous Yellow-hair. In what way am I connected with this horrible doom?"

"You are the wild Norse girl that has demented your Norseman."

"Then you are mad after all?"

Again their eyes met. A unique confusion lay behind the light in the man's; something inscrutable behind the humorous banter in the girl's. Yet it was a happy unembarrassed moment. Andy seized it.

"Margaret," he said, rising and stepping toward her. "You guessed my artifice all right. I alone am to blame for sending Ned and Mary up the gully. There was no plot, only on my part. I decided that we must come to a clear understanding. Lately I have had hours of anxious reflection. I wanted to see you alone to-day. Do you think you love me, Margaret?"

The girl turned frank, open eyes upon him, all levity gone. There was something looking out of his eyes that made her tremble. A deep seriousness stole over her face. Slowly she averted her gaze, looking out into the lake. For a long time she was silent. Then she said gently:

"I love no one else, Andy. But—I—I cannot answer your question. I know you love me. I am not sure that I love you. Do I love you? I—I cannot say. Perhaps I do. I have always thought I did. It may be true. It may all have come about in a way so gradual, so natural, so ordinary that I am confused. I cannot answer you—now. I do not know. Something will help us."

Looking up she met his eyes. They were full of trouble. A wave of compunction swept over her. Holding out her hands she leaned toward him.

"Come," she said simply, "you may kiss me, Andy. I love your kisses."

"How I would like to," was his quiet return as he fought the temptation. "But I cannot. It would not be right. You have a tender heart, Margaret. I love you ever so much more in the last few moments. I shall wait for the right to kiss you. Perhaps it will come."

The girl looked up surprised, a faint flush dyeing her face. Their attachment had obtained for years and since the engagement two years before they had enjoyed the sweet amenities of true lovers. A pang smote her as she realized that he was right.

Upon riding back they discovered the delinquent couple enjoying the shade of a giant oak just beyond the entrance to the gully. Joining forces the troop rode homeward.