ght bring me their inspiration.

Each day my heart-longing for the girl I must not love grew stronger. I
wondered, as I sat here to-night, what trail would open for me when
Beverly and Eloise should meet again, as lovers must meet some time. We
had not once spoken her name between us, Bev and I, in all the days and
nights since we had been in service on the plains.

As I sat lonely, musing vaguely of a score of things that all ran back
to one fair face, Beverly dropped down beside me. His face was grave and
his eyes had a gentle, pleading look, something strange and different
from the man whose moods I knew.

"I'm homesick, Gail." He smiled as he spoke, and all the boy of all the
years was in that smile.

"So am I, Bev. It must be in the water here," I replied, lightly.

But neither one misunderstood the other.

"I'd like to see Little Lees to-night. Wouldn't you?" he asked,
suddenly.

The question startled me. Maybe my cousin wanted to confide in me here.
I would not be selfish with him.

"Yes, I always like to see her. Why to-night, though?" I asked,
encouragingly.

Beverly looked steadily into my face.

"I want to tell you something, Gail. I haven't dared to speak before,
but something tells me I should speak to-night," he said slowly.

I looked away along the winding valley of the Smoky Hill. I must hear it
some time. Why be a coward now?

"Say on, I'm always ready to hear anything from you, Beverly."

I tried to speak firmly, and I hoped my voice did not seem faltering to
him. He sat silent a long while. Then he rose and straightened to his
full height--a splendid form of strength and wholesomeness and grace.

"I'll tell you some time soon, but not to-night. Honor is something with
me yet."

And so he left me.

I dreamed of him that night with Eloise. And all of us were glad. I
wakened suddenly. Beverly was standing near me. He turned and walked
away, his upright form and gait, even in the faint light, individually
Bev's own. I saw him lie down and draw his blanket about him, then sit
up a moment, then nestle down again. Something went wrong with sleep and
me for a long time, and once I called out, softly:

"Bev, can't you sleep?"

"Oh, shut up! Not if you fidget about me," he replied, with the old
happy-go-lucky toss of the head and careless tone.

It was dim dawn when I wakened. My cousin was sleeping calmly just a few
feet away. An irresistible longing to speak to him overcame me and I
s