Crimson Mountain (Musaicum Romance Classics). Grace Livingston Hill

for her normal self-control. "You’ve been wonderfully kind. I don’t know what I should have done if you hadn’t come along. I wouldn’t have been here long enough to do anything. Those creatures would likely have trampled me to death. I was simply petrified! I couldn’t have moved an inch. You saved my life!"

      He gave her a quick look.

      "I’m glad I was here!" he said crisply. "I almost didn’t come this way."

      "God must have sent you," said Laurel reverently.

      "Maybe," he said thoughtfully. "I’ve never had much to do with God!"

      "Neither have I," said Laurel soberly, her eyes very thoughtful. "But I’ve heard people say He cares."

      "Could be," said the young man cryptically. "But I’ve never seen reason in my life to think He cared. Still, if He were going to care for anybody, I should think He might care for you!"

      Suddenly he lifted his head alertly.

      "Listen! There’s that sound again! I thought I heard the voice of one of Hunsicker’s men. There’ll be more animals coming or I’ll miss my guess. You don’t mind if I go some, do you? I think we maybe can beat ’em to it. We’d better get by before they start out from the next farm."

      His face set grimly. The girl cast a frightened glance at him, gripping the cushion of the seat tensely, her heart beating wildly again.

      They fairly flew up the long hill, bordered on the one hand now by a rough wall of fieldstone, piled up without cement, and on the other hand by a deep gully. She could see a wooden gate ahead flanked by a great red barn so weathered that it blended with the autumn trees standing around it, and out of its wide door were coming more steers! Laurel caught her breath involuntarily, and Pilgrim turned and flashed a quick, reassuring smile as they flew on.

      "Don’t worry," he said. "We’re going to make it. They haven’t started yet. I’ll take care of you."

      There was something about his quiet assurance that calmed her fears.

      As they rushed past the old wooden gate now, Laurel could see the group of animals coming down toward the road from the old red barn. Though they were moving in a fairly quiet and orderly mass, the sight of their brown backs, their woolly brown heads, topped by that terrifying fringe of horns, was anything but comforting.

      As they swept past the gate and onward, Pilgrim turned toward her.

      "We’re all right now," he said gently. "We’ve passed their gate, and they are going the other way, so they can’t catch up with us. There’s only one more farm to pass, and we’ll likely be able to miss any there. It might even be that they won’t be sending any cattle down. They are not very successful cattle raisers. But anyway, we’ll get ahead of them, I’m sure."

      So silently they drove on, rushing over the rough cart road.

      And then they came in sight of another little old farmhouse set almost sullenly back from the road. But there were no animals in sight. There wasn’t even a dog around nor any chickens.

      Laurel relaxed and sat back more comfortably.

      Pilgrim watched her furtively.

      "You’re not frightened anymore," he said in a satisfied tone. "We’ve passed all the farms now. Those last people must have moved away or died or something. And now it won’t be far to a garage where we can send someone back for your car. But look around. Isn’t this a lovely spot? I always liked it here."

      They had reached the top of the hill and were passing through the woods. Laurel exclaimed in delight over the beauty of the way. Pilgrim watched her as her face lit up at each new turn.

      "There’s a thrush!" she said joyfully. "There isn’t any birdsong quite like that, is there? And I’ve been away from them so long they sound just wonderful to me."

      "Yes," said Pilgrim a bit sadly. He was thinking that the last time he remembered hearing the thrushes sing was while they were burying his grandfather, the grandfather with whom he had lived so long and whom he had known so little.

      He gave another furtive look at the girl beside him. Suddenly he spoke. "Where have I seen you before? Did you ever live in Carrollton?"

      Her face clouded sadly. "Yes," she said, "I lived there when I was a little girl."

      He looked at her sharply. "I see," he said. "And I’ve seen you as a little girl, going about the town, or perhaps in school. And your eyes have stayed the same. It’s your eyes that made me think I had seen you before." He looked at her gravely and shook his head. "No, I’m too old for that. I must have finished high school before you entered, or at least in your first year. I was working in a filling station at least part-time, long before you were in high school, I guess. Who are you, anyway? I’m sure I’ve seen you, though I may not have known your name. It couldn’t possibly be Sheridan, could it?"

      "Yes, I’m Laurel Sheridan."

      "Sheridan! Langdon Sheridan’s daughter?"

      "Yes."

      "And when you were a little child, you used to drive down in your father’s car when it came for gas and oil! You used to come with the chauffeur and sit in the backseat with your doll or a book while I filled up your car."

      "Oh!" said the girl. "Yes, that’s right. And now I remember you. You were the one they called Phil! Isn’t that right?"

      "That’s right," said the young man, and there was a certain grimness about the set of his lips and the firm line of his jaw. Then after a pause he added, "Yes, I was working in a filling station, and you were living in a stone mansion on Bleeker Street, the daughter of the most important man in the town, heiress to a fortune! There wasn’t any chance that we should have met even enough to have remembered one another. Though I do remember that little girl with the big blue eyes, the eyes that looked at me back there in the road when I almost ran into you. I couldn’t place you at first, but I remembered those eyes."

      "Yes, and I remember the nice boy that waited on us at the filling station, the boy they called Phil. And afterward I heard of Phil Pilgrim who won the prize at high school for his scholarship and his marvelous feats in running and swimming. Were you that one? I only heard the talk about you when I was in high school. So you are the boy who was so noted a character in those days on the athletic field?"

      Pilgrim bowed assent. "Yes, I went to college afterward, and that was a way to help along financially."

      "Oh, of course. Why, how wonderful that I should meet you this way! How wonderful that you came along just when I was in such dire need!"

      "It’s kind of you to feel that way," said Pilgrim with a touch of aloofness in his voice. "I certainly am glad I was able to help you a little. It will make a pleasant incident to remember when I am overseas—or wherever they are sending me."

      "Oh!" said Laurel in a small, sorry voice. "Are you—to go overseas?"

      "Oh, I don’t know what they are going to do with me. That’s not my lookout. But it will be all right, whatever it turns out to be. After all, I haven’t had such a fancy life thus far that I can make any kick at what’s coming." He turned a cool grin toward her.

      "Oh, I’m sorry," said Laurel. "But where did you live in Carrollton? I don’t remember that I ever heard."

      "No, you wouldn’t," said the young man with a sigh. "It wasn’t in your region at all. In fact, if you’re interested, we’re going to pass the old farmhouse in about two minutes, where I lived alone with my grandfather for a good many years."

      "We are?" said Laurel. "Yes, I am interested. I’d like to know all about you. You saved my life, you know, and of course I’m interested."

      He turned another frank gaze on her. "That’s good of you," he said. "Well, there it is, up on the brow of the hill. Just an old farmhouse, and all run down now. Nobody’s lived there since Grandfather and I were there."

      Laurel turned troubled eyes on the bleak old farmhouse