oked up at her. The lashes did not veil quick enough.
He caught the veil wide open. He had thought he knew before. Now, he
knew that he had but touched the outer margin of her love, of the
wealth of her nature, of the reach and grasp of her spirit. She felt
the grip of the strong hands closed over hers.

"Mine alder-liefest," he whispered in the old clean unused phrase.

"Is it a bargain?"

"Bargain?" repeated Wayland.

Then, they both laughed. She had him at such an obvious disadvantage.
I do not intend to tell how far the afternoon shadows had stretched out
when Eleanor exclaimed with a jump; "Dick: the buckboard is out of
sight." I do not think either of them as lovers of horses ever offered
adequate reason for having ridden their bronchos such a hard pace up
grade the last ten miles that the ponies came down the Ridge to the
Valley road a lather of sweat.

"You are sure," he had asked as they came out of the evergreens, "that
you'll never regret?"

"Mr. Matthews intended to leave to-morrow, Dick. Do you think you
could persuade him to stay over a day?"

It was Mrs. Williams who sensed something unusual as the ponies came
down one of the by-paths from the Ridge.

"My dear, look at their faces! I do believe it has!" Then to Eleanor,
"Will you come in the rig? Are you tired?"

"I think I shall," said Eleanor.

"You've ridden y'r nags uncommon hard, Wayland," observed Matthews.

Eleanor had ascended to the back seat. Wayland had tied the bridle
rein of her horse to the rear and was riding abreast of the front seat.

"I wish you could make it convenient to put off your departure for a
day or two," began Wayland, very red.

"Eh? What's that?" cried Matthews; and when he looked to the back seat
Eleanor and the little gray haired lady in plain back mourning bonnet
were going on as fool-women will, and Williams was risking a fall out
leaning over the seat shaking hands with Wayland. Somebody was
flourishing a red cotton handkerchief; two for ten cents, they sell
them in Smelter City. It was Williams who put a check to what Eleanor
called a 'loadful of idiots.' "The wind is blowing towards the snow,"
he said; "but I don't like that column of smoke rising from the
Homestead slope in this high gale. That Irish sot went home roaring
drunk by the stage yesterday. What will you bet the fire didn't start
in the timber slash?"

Wayland gave only one look. "It isn't my job any more," he said, "but