h the thought of her companionship, and found it sweet. Never
had he been less cheery when he met his friends, though there was a
quiet dignity, a tender reserve behind it all that a few discerning ones
perceived. They said at the Fort that he was losing flesh, but if so, he
was gaining muscle. His lean brown arms were never stronger, and his
fine strong face was never sad when any one was by. It was only in the
night-time alone upon the moonlit desert, or in his little quiet
dwelling place when he talked with his Father, and told all the
loneliness and heartache. His people found him more sympathetic, more
painstaking, more tireless than ever before, and the work prospered
under his hand.

The girl in the city deliberately set herself to forget.

The first few days after she left him had been a season of ecstatic joy
mingled with deep depression, as she alternately meditated upon the fact
of a great love, or faced its impossibility.

She had scorched Milton Hamar with her glance of aversion, and avoided
him constantly even in the face of protest from her family, until he had
made excuse and left the party at Pasadena. There, too, Aunt Maria had
relieved them of her annoying interference, and the return trip taken by
the southern route had been an unmolested time for meditation for the
girl. She became daily more and more dissatisfied with herself and her
useless, ornamental life. Some days she read the little book, and other
days she shut it away and tried to get back to her former life, telling
herself it was useless to attempt to change herself. She had found that
the little book gave her a deep unrest and a sense that life held
graver, sweeter things than just living to please one's self. She began
to long for home, and the summer round of gaieties, with which to fill
the emptiness of her heart.

As the summer advanced there was almost a recklessness sometimes about
the way she planned to have a good time every minute; yet in the quiet
of her own room there would always come back the yearning that had been
awakened in the desert and would not be silenced.

Sometimes when the memory of that great deep love she had heard
expressed for herself came over her, the bitter tears would come to her
eyes and one thought would throb through her consciousness: "Not worthy!
Not worthy!" He had not thought her fit to be his wife. Her father and
her world would think it quite otherwise. They would count him unworthy
to mate w