n
combined vagueness with hostility, and he harnessed up the stage that
Peter Hamilton had driven over the day before, when his prospective
passengers were looking, with a graphic pantomimic representation of "take
it or leave it." Under the circumstances, Miss Carmichael and the fat lady
consented to be passengers with much the same feeling of finality that one
might have on embarking for the planet Mars in an air-ship.

There was, furthermore, a suggestion of last rites in the farewells of the
Daxes, each according to their respective personalities, that was far from
reassuring.

"Here's some bread and meat and a bottle of cold coffee, if you live to
need it," was Mrs. Dax's grim prognostication of accident. Leander, being
of an emotional nature, could scarce restrain his tears--the advent of the
travellers had created a welcome variation in the monotony of his dutiful
routine--he felt all the agitation of parting with life-long friends. Mary
Carmichael and Judith promised to write--they had found a great deal to say
to each other the preceding evening.

Chugg cracked his whip ominously, the travellers got inside, not daring to
trust themselves to the box.

The journey with the misanthrope was but a repetition of that first day's
staging--the sage-brush was scarcer, the mountains seemed as far off as
ever, and the outlook was, if possible, more desolate. The entry in Miss
Carmichael's diary, inscribed in malformed characters as the stage jolted
over ruts and gullies, reads: "I do not mind telling you, in strictest
confidence, 'Dere Diary'--as the little boy called you--that when I so
lightly severed my connection with civilization, I had no idea to what an
extent I was going in for the prairie primeval. How on earth does a woman
who can write a letter like Mrs. Yellett stand it? And where on the map of
North America is Lost Trail?"

"Land sakes!" regretted the fat lady, "but I do wish I had a piece of that
'boy's favorite' cake that I had for my lunch the day we left town. I just
ate and ate it 'cause I hadn't another thing to do. If I hadn't been so
greedy I could offer him a piece, just to show him that some women folk
have kind hearts, and that the whole sect ain't like that Pink."

"Boy's favorite," as adequate compensation for shattered ideals, a broken
heart, and the savings of a lifetime, seemed to Mary Carmichael inadequate
compensation, but she forbore to express her sentiments.

The fat lady had never