If she remained in the house, it was to become in person
the target for her sister's undeserved sneers and censure. The situation
was becoming simply unbearable. Twice she began and twice she tore to
fragments the letter for which Mr. Van Antwerp was daily imploring, and
this evening she once more turned and slowly sought her room, threw off
her wraps, and took up her writing-desk. It was not yet dark. There was
still light enough for her purpose, if she went close to the window.
Every nerve was tingling with the sense of wrong and ignominy, every
throb of her heart but intensified the longing for relief from the
thraldom of her position. She saw only one path to lead her from such
crushing dependence. There was his last letter, received only that day,
urging, imploring her to leave Warrener forthwith. Mrs. Rayner had
declared to him her readiness to bring her East provided she would fix
an early date for the wedding. Was it not a future many a girl might
envy? Was he not tender, faithful, patient, devoted as man could be? Had
he not social position and competence? Was he not high-bred, courteous,
refined,--a gentleman in all his acts and words? Why could she not love
him, and be content? There on the desk lay a little scrap of note-paper;
there lay her pen; a dozen words only were necessary. One moment she
gazed longingly, wistfully, at the far-away, darkening heights of the
Rockies, watching the last rose-tinted gleams on the snowy peaks; then
with sudden impulse she seized her pen and drew the portfolio to the
window-seat. As she did so, a soldierly figure came briskly down the
walk; a pale, clear-cut face glanced up at her casement; a quick light
of recognition and pleasure flashed in his eyes; the little forage-cap
was raised with courteous grace, though the step never slackened, and
Miss Travers felt that her cheek, too, was flushing again, as Mr. Hayne
strode rapidly by. She stood there another moment, and then--it had
grown too dark to write.

When Mrs. Rayner, after calling twice from the bottom of the stairs,
finally went up into her room and impatiently pushed open the door, all
was darkness except the glimmer from the hearth:

"Nellie, where are you?"

"Here," answered Miss Travers, starting up from the sofa. "I think I
must have been asleep."

"Your head is hot as fire," said her sister, laying her firm white hand
upon the burning forehead. "I suppose you are going to be downright
ill, by way of divers