just you and
me, and no one else to bother with. But any longer would not be doing
right by your mother. She would have a right to think ill of me."

"Oh!" said the girl. "Let us keep it."

"Not after I am gone. Your mother must be told."

"It seems so--can't we--oh, why need anybody know?"

"Your mother ain't 'anybody.' She is your mother. I feel mighty
responsible to her for what I have done."

"But I did it!"

"Do you think so? Your mother will not think so. I am going to write to
her to-day."

"You! Write to my mother! Oh, then everything will be so different! They
will all--" Molly stopped before the rising visions of Bennington. Upon
the fairy-tale that she had been living with her cow-boy lover broke the
voices of the world. She could hear them from afar. She could see the
eyes of Bennington watching this man at her side. She could imagine the
ears of Bennington listening for slips in his English. There loomed upon
her the round of visits which they would have to make. The ringing of
the door-bells, the waiting in drawing-rooms for the mistress to descend
and utter her prepared congratulations, while her secret eye devoured
the Virginian's appearance, and his manner of standing and sitting. He
would be wearing gloves, instead of fringed gauntlets of buckskin. In a
smooth black coat and waistcoat, how could they perceive the man he was?
During those short formal interviews, what would they ever find out of
the things that she knew about him? The things for which she was proud
of him? He would speak shortly and simply; they would say, "Oh, yes!"
and "How different you must find this from Wyoming!"--and then, after
the door was shut behind his departing back they would say--He would
be totally underrated, not in the least understood. Why should he be
subjected to this? He should never be!

Now in all these half-formed, hurried, distressing thoughts which
streamed through the girl's mind, she altogether forgot one truth. True
it was that the voice of the world would speak as she imagined. True it
was that in the eyes of her family and acquaintance this lover of her
choice would be examined even more like a SPECIMEN than are other lovers
upon these occasions: and all accepted lovers have to face this ordeal
of being treated like specimens by the other family. But dear me!
most of us manage to stand it, don't we? It isn't, perhaps, the
most delicious experience that we can recall in connection with our
engage