returned
to the Springs.

There are certain ways in which books instruct women--and men, too, for
that matter--but there are other and more vital processes in which only
experience (individual or inherited) teaches. In her desultory reading,
little Mrs. Haney, like every other citizen, had taken imaginative part
in many murders, seductions, and marital infidelities; and yet the
motives for such deeds had never before seemed human. Now the dark
places in the divorce trials, the obscure charges in the testimony of
deserted wives, were suddenly illumined. She realized how easy it would
be to make trouble between Mart and herself. She understood the stain
those strangers in the car could put upon her, and she trembled at the
mere thought of Mart's inquiring eyes when he should know of it. Why
should he know of it? It was all over and done with. There was only one
thing to do--forget it.

Surely life was growing complex. With bewildering swiftness the
experiences of a woman of the world were advancing upon her, and she,
with no brother or father to be her guard, or friend to give her
character, with a husband whose very name and face were injuries, was
finding men in the centres of culture quite as predatory as among the
hills, where Mart Haney's fame still made his glance a warning. These
few weeks in Chicago had added a year to her development, but she dared
not face Ben Fordyce alone--not just yet--not till her mind had cleared.

In the midst of her doubt of herself and of him a message came which
made all other news of no account. He was on his way to Chicago to
consult Mart (so the words ran), but in her soul she knew he was coming
to see her. Was it to test her? Had he taken silence for consent? Was he
about to try her faith in him and her loyalty to her husband?

His telegram read: "Coming on important business." That might mean
concerning the mine--on the surface; but beneath ran something more
vital to them both than any mine or labor war, something which developed
in the girl both fear and wonder--fear of the power that came from his
eyes, wonder of the world his love had already opened to her. What was
the meaning of this mad, sweet riot of the blood--this forgetfulness of
all the rest of the world--this longing which was both pleasure and
pain, doubt and delight, which turned her face to the West as though
through a long, shining vista she saw love's messenger speeding towards
her?

Sleep kept afar, and she