nk, which had already been offered him, but which he did not
want, which he would not accept if he did want it.

So, after a long and happy visit at his cousin Kildene's, in
Ireland, he at last left for America again, and plunged into a new,
interesting, and vigorous life, one that suited well his energetic
nature. He found work on the great railway that was being built across
the plains to the Pacific Coast. He started as an engineer's
assistant, but soon his talent for managing men caused his employers
to put him in charge of gangs of workmen who were often difficult and
lawless. He did not object; indeed he liked the new job better than
that he began with. He was more interested in men than materials.

The life was hard and rough, but he came to love it. He loved the
wide, sweeping prairies, and, later on, the desert. He liked to lie
out under the stars,--often when the men slept under tents,--his gun
at his side and his thoughts back on the river bluffs at Leauvite. He
did a lot of dreaming and thinking, and he never forgot Betty. He
thought of her as still a child, although he was expecting her to grow
up and be ready for him when he should return to her. He had a vague
sort of feeling that all was understood between them, and that she was
quietly becoming womanly, and waiting for him.

Peter Junior might have found other friends in Leauvite had he sought
them out, but he did not care for them. His nature called for what he
found in Bertrand's studio, and he followed the desire of his heart
regardless of anything else, spending all the time he could reasonably
filch from his home. And what wonder! Richard would have done the same
and was even then envying Peter the opportunity, as Peter well knew
from his cousin's letters. There was no place in the village so
fascinating and delightful as this little country home on its
outskirts, no conversation more hopeful and helpful than Bertrand's,
and no welcome sweeter or kinder than Mary Ballard's.

One day, after Richard had gone out on the plains with the engineers
of the projected road, Peter lay stretched on a long divan in the
studio, his head supported by his hand as he half reclined on his
elbow, and his one crutch--he had long since discarded the other--within
reach of his arm. His violin also lay within reach, for he had been
playing there by himself, as Bertrand had gone on one of his rare
visits to the city a hundred miles away.

Betty Ballard had heard the