ey were as separate as the two ends of the
earth. By no possibility could both be followed. She must choose between
them, and abide by her decision for good or for ill.

As slowly as she had read the note, Florence dressed; and even then she
did not leave the room. Bathing her reddened eyes, she drew a chair in
front of the window and gazed wistfully down at the handful of green
grass, with the unhealthy-looking elm in its centre, which made the
Baker lawn. Against her will there came to her a vision of the natural,
impersonated in the form of Ben Blair as she had seen him yesterday.
Masterful, optimistic, compellingly honest, splendidly vital, with loves
and hates like elemental forces of nature, he intruded upon her horizon
at every crisis. Try as she would to eliminate him from her life, she
could not do it. With a little catch of the breath she remembered that
last night, when that man had done--what he did--it was not of what her
father or Clarence Sidwell would think, if either of them knew, but of
what Ben Blair would think, what he would do, that she most cared.
Reluctant as she might be to admit it even to herself, yet in her inner
consciousness she knew that this prairie man had a power over her that
no other human being would ever have. Still, knowing this, she was
deliberately turning away from him. If she accepted that invitation for
to-night, with all that it might mean, the separation from Ben would be
irrevocable. Once more the brown head dropped into the waiting hands,
and the shoulders rocked to and fro in indecision and perplexity.

"God help me!" she pleaded, in the first prayer she had voiced in
months. "God help me!"

Again footsteps approached her door, and a hand tapped insistently
thereon.

"Florence," said her father's voice. "Are you up?"

The girl lifted her head. "Yes," she answered.

"Let me in, then." The insistence that had been in the knock spoke in
the voice. "I wish to speak with you."

Instantly an expression almost of repulsion flashed over the girl's
brown face. Never in his life had the Englishman understood his
daughter. He was a glaring example of those who cannot catch the
psychological secret of human nature in a given situation. From the
girl's childhood he had been complaisant when he should have been
severe, had stepped in with the parental authority recognized by his
race when he should have held aloof.

"Some other time, please," replied Florence. "I don't feel li