horizon, came up with a rush and bathed the face of the small person
before him in liquid gold. The leather cap had fallen backward and a
mass of golden hair which now tumbled about the face proclaimed with
startling definiteness the sex of Markham's unexpected guest.

"Sorry to bother you," said the guest weakly. "She missed fire and I
had to 'plane' down."

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

"No, I think not," she replied, running her fingers over her leather
jerkin to reassure herself as to the fact. "Just shaken up a
little--that's all."

Markham stood up and watched her, his arms a-kimbo, a tangle at his
brow. It was quite evident to Hermia Challoner that he hadn't the
slightest recollection of her.

"What are you doing out at this time of day?" he asked. "Don't you
know you might have drowned yourself? Where did you come from? Where
are you going?" The tone of his voice was not unkind--it was even
solicitous for her welfare, but it reminded her unpleasantly of his
attitude toward her the last time they had met.

[Illustration: "Markham stood up and watched her, his arms a-kimbo, a
tangle at his brow."]

"That," she replied, getting rather unsteadily to her feet, "is a
matter of no importance."