R STARK

Except for its chair and bed, the cabin was stripped almost bare. Amid
its emptiness of dismantled shelves and walls and floor, only the tiny
ancestress still hung in her place, last token of the home that had
been. This miniature, tacked against the despoiled boards, and its
descendant, the angry girl with her hand on an open box-lid, made a sort
of couple in the loneliness: she on the wall sweet and serene, she by
the box sweet and stormy. The picture was her final treasure waiting to
be packed for the journey. In whatever room she had called her own
since childhood, there it had also lived and looked at her, not quite
familiar, not quite smiling, but in its prim colonial hues delicate as
some pressed flower. Its pale oval, of color blue and rose and
flaxen, in a battered, pretty gold frame, unconquerably pervaded any
surroundings with a something like last year's lavender. Till yesterday
a Crow Indian war-bonnet had hung next it, a sumptuous cascade of
feathers; on the other side a bow with arrows had dangled; opposite had
been the skin of a silver fox; over the door had spread the antlers of
a black-tail deer; a bearskin stretched beneath it. Thus had the whole
cosey log cabin been upholstered, lavish with trophies of the frontier;
and yet it was in front of the miniature that the visitors used to stop.

Shining quietly now in the cabin's blackness this summer day, the
heirloom was presiding until the end. And as Molly Wood's eyes fell upon
her ancestress of Bennington, 1777, there flashed a spark of steel in
them, alone here in the room that she was leaving forever. She was not
going to teach school any more on Bear Creek, Wyoming; she was going
home to Bennington, Vermont. When time came for school to open again,
there should be a new schoolmarm.

This was the momentous result of that visit which the Virginian had paid
her. He had told her that he was coming for his hour soon. From that
hour she had decided to escape. She was running away from her own heart.
She did not dare to trust herself face to face again with her potent,
indomitable lover. She longed for him, and therefore she would never see
him again. No great-aunt at Dunbarton, or anybody else that knew her and
her family, should ever say that she had married below her station, had
been an unworthy Stark! Accordingly, she had written to the Virginian,
bidding him good-by, and wishing him everything in the world. As she
happened to be aware th