I was in no hurry to reach the summit of the long, slow-sloping ridge,
and I let my horse walk.
Just how would Sally Langdon meet me now, after my regretted exhibition
before her cousin? There was no use to conjecture, but I was not
hopeful.
When I got there to find her in her sweetest mood, with some little
difference never before noted--a touch of shyness--I concealed my
surprise.
"Russ, I gave you a run that time," she said. "Ten miles and you never
caught me!"
"But look at the start you had. I've had my troubles beating you with an
even break."
Sally was susceptible to flattery in regard to her riding, a fact that
I made subtle use of.
"But in a long race I was afraid you'd beat me. Russ, I've learned to
ride out here. Back home I never had room to ride a horse. Just look.
Miles and miles of level, of green. Little hills with black bunches of
trees. Not a soul in sight. Even the town hidden in the green. All wild
and lonely. Isn't it glorious, Russ?"
"Lately it's been getting to me," I replied soberly.
We both gazed out over the sea of gray-green, at the undulating waves
of ground in the distance. On these rides with her I had learned to
appreciate the beauty of the lonely reaches of plain.
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