She was not to be driven from her mood.
"You are such a serious person, Sir Max, that you must, at times, feel yourself a great weight--almost burdensome--to carry about." She laughed, though his resentment had piqued her, and there was a dash of anger in her words.

"Ponderous persons are often ridiculous and are apt to tire themselves with their own weight--no, Sir Max, you can't get away.

I have your reins." "I can dismount," returned Max, "and leave you my horse to lead." He turned to leave his saddle, but she caught his arm, rode close to his side, and, slipping her hand down his sleeve, clasped his hand--if a hand so small as hers can be said to clasp one so large as his.
A beautiful woman is born with a latent consciousness of her power over the subjugated sex.

Max found in the soft touch of the girl's hand a wonderful antidote to her sharp words.

She continued to hold his hand as compensation while she said, laughing nervously:-- "Sir Max, you are still young.