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RV 142 told me of your Son of the Wind was most delightful, like—yes—very like an eclogue." The old fellow had saved himself. He had put the thing on an abstract basis. In the future, Carron saw, it was going to be easier for them to talk about it. "I will let you know as soon as there is anything more to tell," he said.

He had no doubts as he walked down the long, dividing passage but what there would be something more shortly, whence, he was not very clear, that girl so inverted his expectations. She had shown him, told him, vivified for him—all unaware of what she was doing—the splendor of the creature she had seen. No waif of the range, indeed, but Son of the Wind, or kin to him! Her words, her looks, her gestures, translated to him how well she knew the difference. Carron could see her yet, as she had turned to him in her apprehension of thegreat stallion, ready to cover his face with her hands, to roll him down hill, before she would let him see it. And, afterward, when her eye fell on the blackish horse, the difference of her look; the scorn of her accent upon a certain ajective. "He is too small!" How she had touched Carron's expectations with that! And there she had slipped away from him. Just recoiled when he thought she was coming forward, dodged the subject, eluded