o you. Forgive me if I have hurt you, Barbara!"

"It did hurt me a little," she admitted. "Let us leave the dead bones to
rest in their grave."

"I will never dig them up again," he promised her. "But put that away,"
he added, pushing the portrait aside. "It's very like him, and I hate to
see it near you!"

Colonel Jeff had known Oliver Desmond, at least by sight and passing
acquaintance, and he knew--as who did not?--Barbara Thorne's story; who
had not heard the story of the bride deserted at the very altar, waiting
in her bridal dress amongst the assembled party of her own and his
friends--waiting for the bridegroom who never came?

Sometimes even now, when the memory of that horrible day came over
Barbara, she shivered and turned sick and cold at heart. Only since she
had known Rick Jeffreys loved her she had thought of it less; the scar
of the old wound had ceased to throb.

At first she had thought Oliver Desmond was dead; felt sure that nothing
but death could have kept him from her at that hour! But afterwards she
and all the world--their world--learnt that he had left her for another;
the one palliation of the cruel wrong and insult he had inflicted on his
innocent and trusting betrothed being that it was no new love, but the
resurrection of an old, supposed-to-be-dead passion that had lured him
from her. Then they heard now and again rumours of Oliver Desmond's
career. It seemed to be a downward one. They heard of his drinking and
gambling, sinking from bad to worse; of losses, of utter ruin. Now for
years they had heard nothing of him at all; he had sunk out of
knowledge, gone down under the storm of not unmerited misfortune; and
his world knew him no more.

Their little differences made up, Rick Jeffreys spent a happy hour with
Barbara, stayed until the golden haze of sunset was stealing soft and
slow over the shadows of the sombre pine forest and the azure radiance
of the sky; then he had an appointment to meet an old comrade in Eden
City, and he tore himself reluctantly away from the Saucel Ranch--ready
at the last moment to throw over his engagement and stay, if Barbara had
urged him.

The shades of evening had closed when Barbara, having watched her
stalwart lover out of sight, went into the kitchen, on domestic cares
intent. It was very dark there, and she set the outer-door, which led
into the court-yard, wide open to let in such light as there was, while
she put a fresh log on the low wood fire