r tide would come with another sale in May, and so the spring
passed in the same joyous recklessness and the same perfect hope.

In April, the first railroad reached the Gap at last, and families came
in rapidly. Money was still plentiful and right royally was it spent,
for was not just as much more coming when the second road arrived in
May? Life was easier, too--supplies came from New York, eight o'clock
dinners were in vogue and everybody was happy. Every man had two or
three good horses and nothing to do. The place was full of visiting
girls. They rode in parties to High Knob, and the ring of hoof and the
laughter of youth and maid made every dusk resonant with joy. On Poplar
Hill houses sprang up like magic and weddings came. The passing stranger
was stunned to find out in the wilderness such a spot; gayety, prodigal
hospitality, a police force of gentlemen--nearly all of whom were
college graduates--and a club, where poker flourished in the smoke of
Havana cigars, and a barrel of whiskey stood in one corner with a faucet
waiting for the turn of any hand. And still the foundation of the new
hotel was not started and the coming of the new railroad in May did not
make a marked change. For some reason the May sale was postponed by the
Improvement Company, but what did it matter? Perhaps it was better to
wait for the fall, and so the summer went on unchanged. Every man still
had a bank account and in the autumn, the boom would come again. At such
a time June came home for her vacation, and Bob Berkley came back from
college for his. All through the school year Hale had got the best
reports of June. His sister's letters were steadily encouraging. June
had been very homesick for the mountains and for Hale at first, but the
homesickness had quickly worn off--apparently for both. She had studied
hard, had become a favourite among the girls, and had held her own
among them in a surprising way. But it was on June's musical talent that
Hale's sister always laid most stress, and on her voice which, she said,
was really unusual. June wrote, too, at longer and longer intervals and
in her letters, Hale could see the progress she was making--the change
in her handwriting, the increasing formality of expression, and the
increasing shrewdness of her comments on her fellow-pupils, her teachers
and the life about her. She did not write home for a reason Hale knew,
though June never mentioned it--because there was no one at home who
cou