t he was at disadvantage, but no man may
know what there is in the heart of a girl. To Mary Ellen there seemed
to be three ways open. She might address this man bitterly, or
haughtily, or humorously. The latter course might have been most
deadly of all, had it not been tempered with a certain chivalrousness
which abode in Mary Ellen's heart. After all, thought she, here was a
man who was one of their few acquaintances in this strange, wild
country. It might be that he was not an ill sort of man at heart, and
by all means he was less impossible of manner than any other she had
seen here. She had heard that the men of a womanless country were
sometimes suddenly disconcerted by the appearance of womankind upon
their horizon. There was a certain quality about this man which, after
all, left him distinctly within the classification of gentleman.
Moreover, it would be an ill thing for her to leave a sore heart on the
first day of her acquaintance in this town, with which her fortunes
were now apparently to be so intimately connected.

Mary Ellen turned at length and seated herself near the window. The
light of which many women are afraid, the cross-light of double windows
on the morning after a night of dancing, had no terrors for her. Her
eye was clear, her skin fresh, her shoulders undrooping. Franklin from
his seat opposite gazed eagerly at this glorious young being. From his
standpoint there were but few preliminaries to be carried on. This was
the design, the scheme. This was what life had had in store for him,
and why should he hesitate to enter into possession? Why should he
delay to speak that which was foremost in his soul, which assuredly at
that very moment must be the foremost concern in all the interlocking
universe of worlds? After his fashion he had gone straight. He could
not understand the sickening thought that he did not arrive, that his
assertion did not convince, that his desire did not impinge.

Mary Ellen turned toward him slowly at length, and so far from seeming
serious, her features bore the traces of a smile. "Do you know," said
she, "I think I heard of a stage-driver--wasn't it somewhere out
West--who was taking a school-teacher from the railroad to the
schoolhouse--and he--well, that is to say--"

"He said things--"

"Yes, that is it. He said things, you know. Now, he had never seen
the school-teacher before."

"Yes, I have heard of that story," said Franklin, smiling as he