ssed that he drew back in the cover of a
wayside willow that she might pass without recognition. He looked down
upon his red-splashed clothes and grimy, soil-streaked hands, and for a
moment half hated her. His comrades seldom spoke of her--instinctively
fearing some temptation that might beset his Spartan resolutions, but
he heard from time to time that she had been seen at balls and parties,
apparently enjoying those very frivolities of her sex she affected to
condemn. It was a Sabbath morning in early spring that he was returning
from an ineffectual attempt to enlist a capitalist at the county town
to redeem the fortunes of Blazing Star. He was pondering over the
narrowness of that capitalist, who had evidently but illogically
connected Cass's present appearance with the future of that struggling
camp, when he became so footsore that he was obliged to accept a "lift"
from a wayfaring teamster. As the slowly lumbering vehicle passed the
new church on the outskirts of the town, the congregation were sallying
forth. It was too late to jump down and run away, and Cass dared not
ask his new-found friend to whip up his cattle. Conscious of his
unshorn beard and ragged garments, he kept his eyes fixed upon the
road. A voice that thrilled him called his name. It was Miss Porter, a
resplendent vision of silk, laces, and Easter flowers--yet actually
running, with something of her old dash and freedom, beside the wagon.
As the astonished teamster drew up before this elegant apparition, she
panted:

"Why did you make me run so far, and why didn't you look up?"

Cass, trying to hide the patches on his knees beneath a newspaper,
stammered that he had not seen her.

"And you did not hold down your head purposely?"

"No," said Cass.

"Why have you not been to Red Chief? Why didn't you answer my message
about the ring?" she asked, swiftly.

"You sent nothing but the ring," said Cass, coloring, as he glanced at
the teamster.

"Why, _that_ was a message, you born idiot."

Cass stared. The teamster smiled. Miss Porter gazed anxiously at the
wagon. "I think I'd like a ride in there; it looks awfully good." She
glanced mischievously around at the lingering and curious congregation.
"May I?"

But Cass deprecated that proceeding strongly. It was dirty; he was not
sure it was even _wholesome_; she would be _so_ uncomfortable; he
himself was only going a few rods farther, and in that time she might
ruin her dress--

"Oh, yes," s