hen is that?" His
ardent look was on her face, and she, defying her fears, met it with her
beaming eyes. "When you're just yourself, Dan," she answered and galloped
on. Her lips were smiling, but there was a prayer in her heart, for it
cried, "Dear God, let him love me, let him love me."

VIII

BETTY'S UNBELIEF

"Dear God, let him love me," she prayed again in the cool twilight of her
chamber. Before the open window she put her hands to her burning cheeks and
felt the wind trickle between her quivering fingers. Her heart fluttered
like a bird and her blood went in little tremours through her veins. For a
single instant she seemed to feel the passage of the earth through space.
"Oh, let him love me! let him love me!" she cried upon her knees.

When Virginia came in she rose and turned to her with the brightness of
tears on her lashes.

"Do you want me to help you, dear?" she asked, gently.

"Oh, I'm all dressed," answered Virginia, coming toward her. She held a
lamp in her hand, and the light fell over her girlish figure in its muslin
gown. "You are so late, Betty," she added, stopping before the bureau.
"Were you by yourself?"

"Not all the way," replied Betty, slowly.

"Who was with you? Champe?"

"No, not Champe--Dan," said Betty, stooping to unfasten her boots.

Virginia was pinning a red verbena in her hair, and she turned to catch a
side view of her face.

"Do you know I really believe Dan likes you best," she carelessly remarked.
"I asked him the other afternoon what colour hair he preferred, and he
snapped out, 'red' as suddenly as that. Wasn't it funny?"

For a moment Betty did not speak; then she came over and stood beside her
sister.

"Would you mind if he liked me better than you, dear?" she asked,
doubtfully. "Would you mind the least little bit?"

Virginia laughed merrily and stooped to kiss her.

"I shouldn't mind if every man in the world liked you better," she answered
gayly. "If they only had as much sense as I've got, they would, foolish
things."

"I never knew but one who did," returned Betty, "and that was the Major."

"But Champe, too."

"Well, perhaps,--but Champe's afraid of you. He calls you Penelope, you
know, because of the 'wooers.' We counted six horses at the portico
yesterday, and he made a bet with me that all of them belonged to the
'wooers'--and they really did, too."

"Oh, but wooing isn't winning," laughed Virginia, going toward the door.
"You'd better