ferent light. He began to see
that Lyman was a good man and an able man, and that his own course was a
foolish one.

"When I git mad," he confessed to himself, "I don't know anythin'. But
I won't give her up. She ain't old 'nough t' marry yet--and, besides, I
need her."

After finishing his chores, as usual, he went to the well and washed his
face and hands, then entered the kitchen--to find the tea-kettle boiling
over, and no signs of breakfast anywhere, and no sign of the girl.

"Well, I guess she felt sleepy this mornin'. Poor gal! Mebbe she cried
half the night."

"Merry!" he called, gently, at the door. "Merry, m' gal! Pap needs his
breakfast."

There was no reply, and the old man's face stiffened into a wild
surprise. He knocked heavily again and got no reply, and, with a white
face and shaking hand, he flung the door open and gazed at the empty
bed. His hand dropped to his side; his head turned slowly from the bed
to the open window; he rushed forward and looked out on the ground,
where he saw the tracks of a man.

He fell heavily into the chair by the bed, while a deep groan broke from
his stiff and twitching lips.

"She's left me! She's left me!"

For a long half-hour the iron-muscled old man sat there motionless,
hearing not the songs of the hens or the birds far out in the brilliant
sunshine. He had lost sight of his farm, his day's work, and felt no
hunger for food. He did not doubt that her going was final. He felt
that she was gone from him forever. If she ever came back it would not
be as his daughter, but as the wife of Gilman. She had deserted him,
fled in the night like a thief; his heart began to harden again, and he
rose stiffly. His native stubbornness began to assert itself, the first
great shock over, and he went out to the kitchen, and prepared, as best
he could, a breakfast, and sat down to it. In some way his appetite
failed him, and he fell to thinking over his past life, of the death of
his wife, and the early death of his only boy. He was still trying to
think what his life would be in the future without his girl, when two
carriages drove into the yard. It was about the middle of the forenoon,
and the prairie-chickens had ceased to boom and squawk; in fact, that
was why he knew that he had been sitting two hours at the table. Before
he could rise he heard swift feet and a merry voice. Then Marietta burst
through the door.

"Hello, Pap! How you makin' out with break"---- She saw a