this season, the shack had but one visitor--The Squaw. He
brought fuel, and once a week a basket of supplies from "B Troop."
Occasionally, he came swinging a brant by the neck, or carrying a saddle
of fresh venison. But though his manner was as friendly as ever, and he
seemed no less grateful and devoted, he was always strangely worried and
distraught. The evangelist called by once or twice, when storms or the
rushing icepack in the river did not prevent his crossing. As for
Lounsbury, he traversed the bend often on his way to Brannon and, if he
saw a face at a window, waved his hand in pleasant greeting. But he kept
to the road.

Since the morning of the aurora, the little family had ceased to speak
of him. That silence was neither demanded by the section-boss nor agreed
upon by the three. On Lancaster's part, it grew out of the sneaking
consciousness of the ingratitude he did not regret; on the part of
Marylyn, it arose from two causes: a sense of girlish shame at having
confessed her attachment, and a fear that her father would discover it.
With Dallas, consideration for the feelings of her sister made her
shrink from mentioning Lounsbury. Yet there was another reason, and one
no less delicate--she, as well, had a secret to guard.

But in the mind of the elder girl, the thought of Marylyn's happiness
was the uppermost. There were dread moments when it seemed to her as if
that happiness were to be shattered.

During all the past weeks, Marylyn had carefully harboured her fancies
about Lounsbury. Certain of the calico-covered books on the mantel had
no little part in this. Their stories of undying affection--of bold men,
lorn maidens, and the cruel villains who gloried in severing
them--helped her to fit her little circle into proper roles. She loved,
and must crush out her passion. Lounsbury, whom she loved, had been sent
away by her father. And she lived up to the play consistently. She saw
the storekeeper anguished over his banishment; saw depths of meaning in
the good-natured salutes he gave the shack. With herself, she accepted
loneliness as a sign of deeper suffering. She was tortured by self-pity,
by the doubt she had flung at Dallas, by the firm belief that her heart
was hopelessly fettered. Gazing into a piece of looking-glass that
served her for a mirror, she marked with sorrowful pride her transparent
skin and lustreless eye. She sighed as she watched from the windows.
Patiently, she listened for footstep