Miss Marlay from his mind also, wondering that he had to dismiss her at
all, and gave himself to devising ways and means of eloping with little
Katy. She must be gotten away. It was evident that Plausaby would make no
effort to raise money to help him and Katy to get away. Plausaby would
prefer to detain Katy. Clearly, to proceed to pre-empt his claim, to
persuade Plausaby to raise money enough for him to buy a land-warrant
with, and then to raise two hundred dollars by mortgaging his land to
Minorkey or any other lover of mortgages with waiver clauses in them, was
the only course open.

Plausaby, Esq., was ever prompt in dealing with those to whom he was
indebted, so far as promises went. He would always give the most solemn
assurance of his readiness to do anything one wished to have done; and
so, when Albert explained to him that it was necessary for him to
pre-empt because he wished to go East, Plausaby told him to go on and
establish his residence on his claim, and when he got ready to prove up
and pre-empt, to come to him. To come and let him know. To let him know
at once. He made the promise so frankly and so repetitiously, and with
such evident consciousness of his own ability and readiness to meet his
debt to Albert on demand, that the latter went away to his claim in
quietness and hopefulness, relying on Miss Marlay to stand guard over his
sister's love affairs in his absence.

But standing guard was not of much avail. All of the currents that
flowed about Katy's life were undermining her resolution not to see
Smith Westcott. Katy, loving, sweet, tenderhearted, was far from being a
martyr, in stubbornness at best; her resolutions were not worth much
against her sympathies. And now that Albert's scratched face was out of
sight, and there was no visible object to keep alive her indignation,
she felt her heart full of ruth for poor, dear Mr. Westcott. How
lonesome he must be without her! She could only measure his lonesomeness
by her own. Her heart, ever eager to love, could not let go when once it
had attached itself, and she longed for other evenings in which she
could hear Smith's rattling talk, and in which he would tell her how
happy she had made him. How lonesome he must be! What if he should drown
himself in the lake?

Mr. Plausaby, at tea, would tell in the most incidental way of something
that had happened during the day, and then, in his sliding, slipping,
repetitious, back-stitching fashion, would