her, a man to whose generosity
she could appeal with the certainty of instant response--Willard
Brockton. But she would die sooner. She would not confess defeat. The
one being who really cared for her and to whom she could properly
appeal was thousands of miles away, in complete ignorance of her
plight. She could telegraph him for money, but he might not understand,
and she was too proud to lay her actions open to misconstruction. No,
she must have patience and wait. If she had to go out scrubbing she
would hold out until John Madison came back for her. But it was a
bitter experience for a girl who had grown accustomed to every luxury,
and, at times, her fortitude and patience were tried to the utmost. The
constant humiliation, to say nothing of the mental and physical
suffering, was sometimes more than she could bear, and there were many
nights when she sobbed herself to sleep. Even her good looks suffered.
Constant anxiety made her thin; sleepless nights drove the color from
her cheeks and put dark circles round her eyes. She did not have even
enough to eat. Forced to economize, she went without regular meals,
satisfying her hunger cravings with what little she could cook herself
in her own comfortless room.

But in these dark hours, there was one ray of light, and that was her
serene faith in her absent lover. She was convinced now that her
attachment for the journalist was no passing fancy, no mere caprice of
the moment. For the first time in her life, she felt the uplifting,
exalted emotion of a pure love, and it seemed to burn in her bosom like
a cleansing touch, wiping out the stain in her past. With all her
experiences, tragic and otherwise, Laura Murdock had found nothing
equal to this sudden, swiftly increasing love for the young Westerner.

That he would come back for her sooner or later, she never for a moment
doubted. Of his perfect loyalty, she was convinced. He was her one
thought, night and day, and there was no keener pleasure in this, her
new life, than in maintaining their constant correspondence. Not a day
passed that did not carry a letter Westwards; each morning the postman
brought a letter from Madison, full of what he was doing, setting
enthusiastically forth his plans for the future. These letters, which
were her most treasured possessions, she kept in a big, cardboard box
under the bed. By actual count, there were 125 letters and 80
telegrams, tied in eight separate bundles with dainty blue ri