. I wanted the boy myself, but you seem to have the best
title, so there's no use to try to jump your claim."

Lunch was just over as a messenger was announced, and a moment later a
telegram was handed to Darrell. As he opened the missive his fingers
trembled and Mr. Britton's face grew pale. Darrell hastily read the
contents, then met his father's anxious glance with a reassuring smile.

"She is living and in usual health, though my friend says she is much
more delicate than when I left."

"We must go to her at once, my boy," said Mr. Britton; "how soon can you
leave?"

"In a very few hours, father; when do you wish to start?"

Mr. Britton consulted a time-table. "The east-bound express leaves at
ten-thirty to-night; can we make that?"

"Sure!" Darrell responded, with an enthusiasm new to his western
friends; "you can't start too soon for me, and there isn't a train that
travels fast enough to take me to that little mother of mine, especially
with the good news I have for her."

Half an hour later, as he was hastily gathering together his
possessions, he came suddenly upon a picture, at sight of which he
paused, then stood spellbound, all else for the time forgotten. It was a
portrait of Kate Underwood, taken in the gown she had worn on that night
of her first reception. It served as a connecting link between the past
and present. Gazing at it he was able to understand how the young girl
whom he faintly remembered had grown into the strong, sweet character
delineated in the recorded story of his love. He was able to recall some
of the scenes portrayed there; he recalled her as she stood that day on
the "Divide," her head uncovered, her gleaming hair like a halo about
her face, her eyes shining with a light that was not of earth.

He kissed the picture reverently. "Sweet angel of my dream!" he
murmured; "come what may, you hold, and always will, a place in my heart
which no other can ever take from you. I will lay your sweet face away,
never again to be lifted from its hiding-place until I can look upon it
as the face of my betrothed."

His trunk was packed, his preparations for departure nearly complete,
when there came a gentle tap at his door, and Mrs. Dean entered.

"I was afraid," she said, speaking with some hesitation, "that you might
think it strange if you did not see Katherine, and I wanted to explain
that she is away. She went out of town, to be gone for a few days. She
will be very sorry when she