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The action amazed her
equally as his passion of gratitude. He might have been injured, but he had an
arm of iron. Lucy was powerless. She felt her face against his--and her breast
against his. The pounding of his heart was like blows. The first instant she
wanted to laugh, despite her pity. Then the powerful arm--the contact affected
her as nothing ever before. Suppose this crippled rider had taken her for a
boy--She was not a boy! She could not help being herself. And no man had ever
put a hand on her. Consciousness of this brought shame and anger. She
struggled so violently that she freed herself. And he lay back.
"See here--that's no way to act--to hug--a person," she cried, with flaming
cheeks.
"Boy, I--"
"I'm NOT a boy. I'm a girl."
"What!"
Lucy tore off her sombrero, which had been pulled far forward, and this
revealed her face fully, and her hair came tumbling down. The rider gazed,
stupefied. Then a faint tinge of red colored his ghastly cheeks.
"A girl! . . . Why--why 'scuse me, miss. I--I took you--for a boy.


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