If Thelismer Thornton had
been responsible for his candidacy, so was his own personality
responsible for this clearing away of difficulties. He felt his
self-respect returning. That cruel wound to his pride was healing.
He was riding home in the evening of the second day, past the end of the
long bridge, finding comfort in this thought.
A white figure, framed in the black mouth of the bridge, startled rider
and horse.
"It's only Clare," she said. "I heard you were up the river to-day, and
I've been waiting for you."
He rode closer. It was a new and strange Clare who was revealed to him
in the dim light. She was gowned and gloved, and her broad hat hid her
boyish curls. She walked out of the gloom and leaned against the bridge
rail.
"Ah, the little playmate did ride away from me forever!" he cried,
looking her up and down. "But this young lady--why, she takes my breath
away!" He took off his hat and bowed to the pommel.
"You needn't make fun of me, Mr. Harlan Thornton," she returned,
crisply. "And a real young lady wouldn't come down in this bridge and
wait for you.
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