Peggy-in-the-Rain
I
HE breeze which had tempered the heat of a mid-March day had died away, and the leaves along the bridle path hung motionless in the sudden oppression. Above the tree tops the sky darkened ominously. Gordon Ames, gun on shoulder and three brace of plump quail bulging the pockets of his shooting jacket, paused for breath and wiped the perspiration from his face.
It was a good-looking face. Some thought it too good-looking. Perhaps, although the chin was square and prominent, the nose straight and the brown eyes candid and direct, it lacked strength, or seemed to. The fault was with the mouth, which, unhidden by a mustache, was smilingly soft. On the whole, however, the face was pleasing; honest, good-humored, merry, with a
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