tertainment,
but in contrast with life in a sod shanty it was all very exciting for
her.

"Oh, I wish we could live in town this winter!" she sighed in Rivers'
ear.

"You can," he answered, with significant inflection.

Altogether, the evening was one of deep pleasure for Blanche. She
enjoyed the companionship of the Clayton girls, who had never been so
friendly and sympathetic with her before. They invited her to spend the
night with them, which pleased her very much, and they all sat up till
one o'clock, talking upon all sorts of tremendously interesting feminine
subjects.

Next morning Estelle went with her while she did a little
shopping--pitifully little, for she only had a dollar or two to
spend--while Bailey loaded up his team. At last, and all too soon, her
outing ended, and she faced the west with heavy heart.

Poor Willard also felt the menace of the desolate, wild prairie, but he
had no conception of the tumult of regret and despair which filled his
wife's mind as she climbed into the wagon for their return journey. She
was like a prisoner whose parole had ended.

The Clayton girls said good-bye with pity in their voices, and Rivers
sought opportunity to say, privately: "I hate to see you back out there
on the border. If you need anything, let me know."

"All aboard!" called Bailey, as he took his reins in hand.

A bitter blast and a gray sky confronted them as they drove out of the
town, and not even Bailey's abounding vitality and good-humor could keep
Blanche from sinking back into gloomy silence. The wind was keen,
strong, prophetic of the snows which were already gathering far in the
north, and the journey seemed endless; and when late in the afternoon
they drew up before the squat, low hovel in which she was to spend a
long and desolate winter, Blanche was shivering violently, and so
depressed that she could not coherently thank the kindly young fellow
who had afforded her this brief respite from her care. She staggered
into the house, so stiff she could scarcely walk, and sank into a chair
to sob out her loneliness and despair, while Willard pottered about
building a fire on their icy hearth.

Willard Burke had a question to ask, and that night, as they were
sitting at their poor little table, he plucked up courage to begin:

"Blanche, I want to ask you something--that is, I've been kind o'
noticin' you--" Here he paused, intending to be sly and suggestive.
"Seems to me this climate ain't