ng prairie chickens calling--you'll come back to
me, and I'll think of you--and of the Big Sioux--and of--" His eyes
dropped to a smooth brown head, every coil of the walnut hair
glistening.

It made him think of the many boat rides they two had taken together
in the past two weeks, when he had watched the moonlight shimmering on
rippling, running water, and compared the play of light upon it and
upon that same brown head--and had forgotten all else in the
comparison. He forgot all else now. He sat down, and the horse
started. The noisy wagons ahead had passed out of hearing. The pair
were alone.

He was silent a moment, looking sideways at the girl. The moonlight
fell full upon her face, drawing clear the line of cheek and chin;
bringing out the curve of the drooping mouth and the shadow from the
long lashes. She seemed to the sensitive lad more than human. He had
loved her for years, with the pure silent love known only to such a
nature as his--and never had he loved her so wildly as now.

He was the sport of a multitude of passions; love and ambition were
the strongest, and they were fighting a death struggle with each
other. How could he leave her for years--perhaps never see her
again--and yet how could he ask her to be the wife of such as he was
now--a mere laborer? And again, his college course, his cherished
ambition for years--how could he give it up; and yet he felt--he knew
she loved him, and trusted him.

He had been looking squarely at her. She turned, and their eyes met.
Each knew the thought of the other, and each turned away. He hesitated
no longer; he would tell her all, and she should judge. His voice
trembled a little as he said: "I want to tell you a story, and ask you
a question--may I?"

She looked at him quickly, then answered with a smile: "I'm always
glad to hear stories--and at the worst one can always decline to
answer questions."

He looked out over the prairie, and saw the lights of the little
town--her home--in the distance.

"It isn't a short story, and I have only so long"--he pointed along
the road ahead to the village beyond--"to tell it in." He settled
back in the seat, and began speaking. His voice was low and soft, like
the prairie night-wind.

"Part of the story you know; part of it I think you have guessed; a
little of it will be new. For the sake of that little, I will tell
all."

"Thirteen years ago, what is now a little prairie town--then a very
little town indeed-