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“Hello, Mauney,” came a familiar voice from the door as he passed.

“Are you going up to the village, Miss Byrne?” he asked, lifting his hat.

“I’d like to?” she smiled.

“Come on,” he invited, cramping the horse to the other side, that she might more conveniently enter.

Miss Jean Byrne was a graceful young woman whose manner breathed unusual freshness. Her oval face possessed a certain nun-like beauty, chiefly by reason of her deep hazel eyes, quiet emblems of a devotional disposition. Her good color, however, and an indulgent fulness of lips, saved her face from an ultra-spirituality and her low, contralto laughter neutralized a first impression of asceticism. Mauney had never noticed that she was really quite a large woman, although he had been a pupil in her school for two years.

“How goes it, Mauney?” she asked, having noticed an unwonted sadness in his face, usually so bright.

“Not too badly. I’m enjoying that book you lent me,” he replied, with a smile.

“Come now—something’s wrong,” she said, searching his face as they drove along together.