more than she could
bear. Two great tears welled up into her beautiful, somber eyes and
slowly rolled down her cheeks. She bowed like a willow bending to the
force of the storm.

Her weakness was only momentary, however; her courage, bred from the
wildness of her life surroundings, rose superior to her feminine
weakness. She dashed her gloved hands across her eyes and wiped the
tears away. She felt that she must be doing--not weeping. Had not she
sealed a solemn compact with her lover? She must to work without delay.

She glanced round the room. Her gaze was that of one who wishes to
reassure herself. It was as if the old life had gone from her and she
was about to embark on a career new--foreign to her. A career in which
she could see no future--only the present. She felt like one taking a
long farewell to a life which had been fraught with nothing but delight.
The expression of her face told of the pain of the parting. With a heavy
sigh she passed out of the room--out into the chill night air, where
even the welcome sounds of the croaking frogs and the lowing cattle were
not. Where nothing was to cheer her for the work which in the future
must be hers. Something of that solemn night entered her soul. The gloom
of disaster was upon her.

It was only a short distance to Dr. Abbot's house. The darkness of the
night was no hindrance to the girl. Hither she made her way with the
light, springing step of one whose mind is made up to a definite
purpose.

She found Mrs. Abbot in. The little sitting-room in the doctor's house
was delightfully homelike and comfortable. There was nothing pretentious
about it--just solid comfort. And the great radiating stove in the
center of it smelt invitingly warm to the girl as she came in out of the
raw night air. Mrs. Abbot was alternating between a basket of sewing and
a well-worn, cheap-edition novel. The old lady was waiting with
patience, the outcome of experience, for the return of her lord to his
supper.

"Well, 'Aunt' Margaret," said Jacky, entering with the confidence of an
assured welcome, "I've come over for a good gossip. There's nobody at
home--up there," with a nod in the direction of the ranch.

"My dear child, I'm so pleased," exclaimed Mrs. Abbot, coming forward
from her rather rigid seat, and kissing the girl on both cheeks with
old-fashioned cordiality. "Come and sit by the stove--yes, take that
hideous hat off, which, by the way, I never could understand your
wear