ange
absence of conviction, as he asked abruptly: "Dorothy, whom are you
going to marry?"

So he had heard that foolish gossip, and that was why there was that
look in his face!

She was too generous to think of herself, too sure, indeed, of him and
of herself, to weigh her words. With the little, half-defiant toss of
the head he knew so well, yet gathering up the reins as if for instant
flight, she said:

"I should think that was for you to say, Harry!"

XII.

THE BLIZZARD PICNIC.

"Ah, there, Mr. Burns! Glad to see you! This is what we call real
Colorado weather!"

The speaker, a mercurial youth of two and twenty, was one of a group of
young people assembled, some on horseback, some in yellow buckboards, in
front of a stately Springtown mansion.

"Nothing conceited about us!" a girlish voice retorted. "I am sure you
understand by this time, Mr. Burns, that Colorado is a synonym for
perfection."

The new-comer laughed appreciatively as he drew rein close beside the
girl, who sat her part-thoroughbred with the ease and grace of lifelong
habit.

"I had learned my lesson pretty well before I came out, thanks to you,"
the young man answered, in a tone that was a trifle over-significant.

The girl flushed, whether from pleasure or annoyance, it was impossible
for the looker-on to decide. The looker-on--and his name, as usual, was
legion,--had found no lack of occupation since the arrival on the field,
some two weeks previous, of the Rev. Stephen Burns. Although the young
minister was staying at the hotel, like any other chance tourist, there
could be no question as to the object of his visit, for he passed most
of his waking hours, either under Dr. Lovejoy's roof, or in the society
of the doctor's daughter. The fact that Amy Lovejoy tolerated such
assiduous attendance boded ill for Springtown, yet so cheerful is the
atmosphere of the sunny-hearted little community, that foregone
conclusions of an unwelcome character carry but scant conviction to its
mind. Springtown could not spare Amy Lovejoy, therefore Springtown would
not be called upon to do so.

By this time the group was twenty strong, a truly gala assemblage, which
might have blocked the way on a less generous thoroughfare. On the broad
expanse of Western Avenue, however, no picnic party, however numerous,
was likely to interfere with traffic.

They were all young people, the chaperone of the occasion, a bride of
twenty, looking, as she was