s him here, he'll
throw him out to die," Frances whispered. "I've been keeping Mr.
Macdonald's pistols ready to--to--make a fight of it, if necessary.
Maybe you could manage it some other way."

Frances was on her knees beside her new friend, her anxiety speaking
from her tired eyes, full of their shadows of pain. Mrs. Mathews drew
her close, and smoothed back Frances' wilful, redundant hair with
soothing touch. For a little while she said nothing, but there was
much in her delicate silence that told she understood.

"No, Chadron will not do that," she said at last. "He is a violent,
blustering man, but I believe he owes me something that will make him
do in this case as I request. Go to sleep, child. When he wakes he'll
be conscious, but too weak for anything more than a smile."

Frances went away assured, and stole softly up the stairs. The sun was
just under the hill; Mrs. Chadron would be stirring soon. Nola was up
already, Frances heard with surprise as she passed her door, moving
about her room with quick step. She hesitated there a moment, thinking
to turn back and ask Mrs. Mathews to deny her the hospital room. But
such a request would seem strange, and it would be difficult to
explain. She passed on into the room that she had lately occupied.
Soothed by her great confidence in Mrs. Mathews, she fell asleep, her
last waking hope being that when she stood before Alan Macdonald's
couch again it would be to see him smile.

Frances woke toward the decline of day, with upbraidings for having
yielded to nature's ministrations for so long. Still, everything must
be progressing well with Alan Macdonald, or Mrs. Mathews would have
called her. She regretted that she hadn't something to put on besides
her torn and soiled riding habit to cheer him with the sight of when
he should open his eyes to smile.

Anxious as she was, and fast as her heart fluttered, she took time to
arrange her hair in the way that she liked it best. It seemed warrant
to her that he must find her handsomer for that. People argue that
way, men in their gravity as well as women in their frivolity, each
believing that his own appraisement of himself is the incontestable
test, none rightly understanding how ridiculous pet foibles frequently
make us all.

But there was nothing ridiculous in the coil of serene brown hair
drawn low against a white neck, nor in the ripples of it at the
temples, nor in the stately seriousness of the face that it shadow