"Why he--he actually married the Widow Guffy. She 's twice his age,
and has a grown-up son. And to think that I supposed he was so nice!
He did write beautiful verses. Is n't it a perfect shame for such a
man to throw himself away like that?"

"It would seem so. But there was another whose name I recall--Jack
Moffat. Why not have him?"

Miss Spencer glanced uneasily at her chosen companion, her cheeks
reddening. But that gentleman remained provokingly silent, and she was
compelled to reply.

"We--we never mention him any more. He was a very bad man."

"Indeed?"

"Yes; it seems he had a wife and four children he had run away from,
back in Iowa. Perhaps that was why his eyes always looked so sad. She
actually advertised for him in one of the Omaha papers. It was a
terrible shock to all of us. I was so grateful to Howard that he
succeeded in opening my eyes in time."

Mr. Wynkoop placed his hand gently upon her shoulder. "Never mind,
dearie," he said, cheerfully. "The West was all so strange to you, and
it seemed very wonderful at first. But that is all safely over with
now, and, as my wife, you will forget the unpleasant memories."

And Miss Spencer, totally oblivious to Brant's presence, turned
impulsively and kissed him.

There was a rustle at the inner door, and Naida stood there. Their
eyes met, and the color mounted swiftly to the girl's cheeks. Then he
stepped resolutely forward, forgetful of all other presence, and
clasped her hand in both his own. Neither spoke a word, yet each
understood something of what was in the heart of the other.

"Will you walk outside with me?" he asked, at last. "I have much to
say which I am sure you would rather hear alone."

She bent her head, and with a brief word of explanation to the others,
the young officer conducted her forth into the bright July sunshine.
They walked in silence side by side along the bank of the little
stream. Brant glanced furtively toward the sweet, girlish face. There
was a pallor on her countenance, a shadow in her eyes, yet she walked
with the same easy grace, her head firmly poised above her white
throat. The very sadness marking her features seemed to him an added
beauty.

He realized where they were going now, where memory had brought them
without conscious volition. As he led her across the rivulet she
glanced up into his face with a smile, as though a happy recollection
had burst upon her. Yet not a word was spoke