or her reply, but
there was none she could make, and her silence added the final word to his
decision. Elizabeth knew that it was the only honourable course; she
consented to it in her mind, and yet, as she looked ahead to a time when
she could not have him to take shelter behind with the cream jars of her
life, she was sick at what she must face. Even to-day she hoped that he
would be present when she drove Patsie into the yard.

Fortune favoured Elizabeth in getting home with the horse and buggy. John
had said that he was going to the pasture to look over the stock, and when
Hugh saw Elizabeth drive through the gate they had left open, there was
nothing for him to do but go forward to take her horse. John had seen her
coming and had come back from the pasture gate, and the three met.

"See how brave I have become in your absence," she said.

"Well, I guess you've driven horses as long as I have," John Hunter
replied happily, and kissed the astonished wife and the child in her arms
with such real pleasure in returning to them that it was good to meet him
after all.

"If he'd always be like that," Elizabeth thought wistfully, and Hugh
Noland felt more like a criminal in the presence of that kiss than he had
ever done in his life.

"Here, I'll tie Patsie up after I give her a drink. You go in with
Elizabeth and I'll follow as soon as its done," John said to Hugh, and
turning to Elizabeth said, "You haven't taken very good care of him since
I've been away, dear. Go on in and get a book and I'll listen for an hour
before I go to the pasture."

"I'll do no such thing. I'll go to that pasture with you--that's what I'll
do. I'm not sick. Rats! Elizabeth knows I----"

Hugh Noland stopped short, "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Hunter," he added
confusedly.

"I don't know why you shouldn't call me by my first name; I do you,"
Elizabeth answered, glad in spite of herself.

Hugh went away with John, and Elizabeth had a long time to think about it.
It was the first time Hugh had ever dropped into the least familiarity in
addressing her, and no amount of reasoning could keep her from feeling a
thrill of pleasure over it. She did not approve of herself, but the thrill
was there. She hated herself, but the thrill remained. She wondered
bitterly if she would ever be able to approve of herself again; every turn
of life's wheel brought out some new and hitherto unsuspected
characteristic, and try as she would she could not make hersel