She caught a glimpse of him—his sturdy frame, white hair, and ruddy visage—and a swift, almost wistful memory of young Jim Neeland passed through her mind.

But it was a very confused mind—only the bewildered mind of a very young girl—and the memory of the boy flashed into its confusion and out again as rapidly as the landscape sped away behind the flying car.

Dully she was aware that she was leaving familiar and beloved things, but could not seem to realise it—childhood, girlhood, father and mother, Brookhollow, the mill, Gayfield, her friends, all were vanishing in the flying dust behind her, dwindling, dissolving into an infinitely growing distance.

They took the gradual slope of a mile-long hill as 96 swallows take the air; houses, barns, woods, orchards, grain fields, flew by on either side; other cars approaching passed them like cannon balls; the sunlit, undulating world flowed glittering away behind; only the stainless blue ahead confronted them immovably—a vast, magnificent goal, vague with the mystery of promise.

96

“On this trip,” said Brandes, “we may only have time to see the Loove and the palaces and all like that. Next year we’ll fix it so we can stay in Paris and you can study art.”

Ruhannah’s lips formed the words, “Thank you.”

“Can’t you learn to call me Eddie?” he urged.

The girl was silent.

“You’re everything in the world to me, Rue.”

The same little mechanical smile fixed itself on her lips, and she looked straight ahead of her.

“Haven’t you begun to love me just a little bit, Rue?”

“I like you. You are very kind to us.”

“Don’t your affection seem to grow a little stronger now?” he urged.

“You are so kind to us,” she repeated gratefully; “I like you for it.”

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