ys before
Marjorie felt quite sure she was able to bear again the rigours of
camp life, and two days before Aunt Janet woke up to the fact that
that foreign young man was altogether too handsome to be riding
from morning till night with her niece. For Jack, meanwhile, was
attending with assiduous courtesy the Aunt and receiving radiant
looks of gratitude from the niece. Two days of Heaven, when Kalman
forgot all but that she was beside him; two days of hell when he
remembered that he was but a poor foreign boy and she a great
English lady. Two days and they said farewell. Marjorie was the
last, turning first to French, who kissed her, saying, "Come back
again, little girl," and then to Kalman, sitting on his broncho,
for he hated to go lame before them all.

"Good-by, Kalman," she said, smiling bravely, while her lips
quivered. "I'll no forget yon awful and," leaning slightly toward
him as he took her hand, "yon happy night. Good-by for now.
I'll no forget."

And Kalman, looking straight into her eyes, held her hand without a
word till, withdrawing it from his hold, she turned away, leaving
the smile with him and carrying with her the quivering lips.

"I shall ride a bit with you, little girl," said Jack French,
who was ever quick with his eyes.

She tried to smile at him, but failed piteously. But Jack rode
close to her, talking bright nothings till she could smile again.

"Oh, Jack, but you are the dear!" she said to him as they galloped
together up the trail, Mr. Penny following behind. "I'll mind this
to you."

But before they took the descent to the Night Hawk ravine, they
heard a thunder of hoofs, and wheeling, found Kalman bearing down
upon them.

"Mercy me!" cried Aunt Janet, "what's wrang wi' the lad?"

"I have come to say good-by," he shouted, his broncho tearing up
the earth by Marjorie's side.

Reaching out his hands, he drew her toward him and kissed her
before them all, once, again, and yet again, with Aunt Janet
screaming, "Mercy sakes alive! The lad is daft! He'll do her
a hurt!"

"Hoots! woman, let the bairns be," cried Marjorie's father.
"He saved her for us."

But having said his farewell, Kalman rode away, waving his hand
and singing at the top of his voice his Hungarian love-song,

"While the flower blooms in the meadow,
And fishes swim the sea,
Heart of my heart, soul of my soul,
I'll love and live for thee,"

which none but Marjorie could understand,