oing its work. "And I can't let the night go by without
telling you that I love you."

Gregoire called out that the horses were ready. Melicent was
approaching in her diaphanous envelope, and Hosmer reluctantly let
drop Therese's hand and left her.

As the men rode away, the two women stood silently following their
diminishing outlines into the darkness and listening to the creaking
of the saddles and the dull regular thud of the horses' feet upon the
soft earth, until the sounds grew inaudible, when they turned to the
inner shelter of the veranda. Melicent once more possessed herself of
the hammock in which she now reclined fully, and Therese sat near
enough beside her to intertwine her fingers between the tense cords.

"What a great difference in age there must be between you and your
brother," she said, breaking the silence.

"Yes--though he is younger and I older than you perhaps think. He was
fifteen and the only child when I was born. I am twenty-four, so he of
course is thirty-nine."

"I certainly thought him older."

"Just imagine, Mrs. Lafirme, I was only ten when both my parents died.
We had no kindred living in the West, and I positively rebelled
against being separated from David; so you see he's had the care of me
for a good many years."

"He appears very fond of you."

"Oh, not only that, but you've no idea how splendidly he's done for me
in every way. Looked after my interest and all that, so that I'm
perfectly independent. Poor Dave," she continued, heaving a profound
sigh, "he's had more than his share of trouble, if ever a man had. I
wonder when his day of compensation will come."

"Don't you think," ventured Therese, "that we make too much of our
individual trials. We are all so prone to believe our own burden
heavier than our neighbor's."

"Perhaps--but there can be no question about the weight of David's.
I'm not a bit selfish about him though; poor fellow, I only wish he'd
marry again."

Melicent's last words stung Therese like an insult. Her native pride
rebelled against the reticence of this man who had shared her
confidence while keeping her in ignorance of so important a feature of
his own life. But her dignity would not permit a show of disturbance;
she only asked:--

"How long has his wife been dead?"

"Oh," cried Melicent, in dismay. "I thought you knew of course;
why--she isn't dead at all--they were divorced two years ago."

The girl felt intuitively that she had yielded