intense amazement of Anderson Crow, the
ever-mysterious thousand dollars, a few weeks late. On a certain day the
old marshal took Rosalie to Boggs City, and the guardianship proceedings
were legally closed. Listlessly she accepted half of the money he had
saved, having refused to take all of it. She was now her own mistress,
much to her regret if not to his.

"I may go on living with you, Daddy Crow, may I not?" she asked
wistfully as they drove home through the March blizzard. "This doesn't
mean that I cannot be your own little girl after to-day, does it?"

"Don't talk like that, Rosalie Gray, er I'll put you to bed 'thout a
speck o' supper," growled he in his most threatening tones, but the
tears were rolling down his cheeks at the time.

"Do you know, daddy, I honestly hope that the big city detective won't
find out who I am," she said after a long period of reflection.

"Cause why?"

"Because, if he doesn't, you won't have any excuse for turning me out."

"I'll not only send you to bed, but I'll give you a tarnation good
lickin' besides if you talk like--"

"But I'm twenty-one. You have no right," said she so brightly that he
cracked his whip over the horse's back and blew his nose twice for full
measure of gratitude.

"Well, I ain't heerd anything from that fly detective lately, an' I'm
beginnin' to think he ain't sech a long sight better'n I am," said he
proudly.

"He isn't half as good!" she cried.

"I mean as a detective," he supplemented apologetically.

"So do I," she agreed earnestly; but it was lost on him.

There was a letter at home for her from Edith Bonner. It brought the
news that Wicker was going South to recuperate. His system had "gone
off" since the accident, and the March winds were driving him away
temporarily. Rosalie's heart ached that night, and there was a still,
cold dread in its depths that drove sleep away. He had not written to
her, and she had begun to fear that their month had been a trifle to
him, after all. Now she was troubled and grieved that she should have
entertained the fear. Edith went on to say that her brother had seen the
New York detective, who was still hopelessly in the dark, but struggling
on in the belief that chance would open the way for him.

Rosalie, strive as she would to prevent it, grew pale and the roundness
left her cheek as the weeks went by. Her every thought was with the man
who had gone to the Southland. She loved him as she loved life, but s