had wooed her. It was a commonplace note enough, far
more neutral than the strong, virile writer who had lacked the cunning
to transmit his feeling to ink and paper. But, after all, it was from
him, and it told the divine message, however haltingly. No wonder she
burned her little finger tips from the flame of the matches creeping
nearer unheeded. No wonder she pressed it to her lips in the darkness
and dreamed her happy dream in those few moments when she was lost in
her love before cruel realities pressed home on her again.

"I told you, Little Curly Haid, that I had first-rate reasons for not
wanting to be killed by these Mexicans. So I have, the best reasons
going. But they are not ripe to tell you, and so I write them.

"I guessed your secret, little pardner, right away when I seen you in a
girl's outfit. If I hadn't been blind as a bat I would have guessed it
long since, for all the time my feelings were telling me mighty loud
that you were the lovingest little kid Bucky had ever come across.

"I'll not leave you to guess my secret the way you did me yours, dear
Curly, but right prompt I'll set down adore (with one D) and say you hit
the bull's-eye that time without expecting to. But if I was saying it I
would not use any French words sweetheart, but plain American. And the
word would be l-o-v-e, without any D's. Now you have got the straight
of it, my dear. I love you--love you--love you, from the crown of that
curly hear to the soles of your little feet. What's more, you have got
to love me, too, since I am,

"Your future husband,

"BUCKY O CONNOR.

"P. S.--And now, Curly, you know my first-rate reasons for not meaning
to get shot up by any of these Mexican fellows."

So the letter ran, and it went to her heart directly as rain to the
thirsty roots of flowers. He loved her. Whatever happened, she would
always have that comfort. They might kill him, but they could not take
away that. The words of an old Scotch song that Mrs. Mackenzie sang came
back to her:

"The span o' life's nae large eneugh,
Nor deep enough the sea,
Nor braid eneugh this weary warld,
To part my love frae me."

No, they could not part their hearts in this world or the next, and
with this sad comfort she flung herself on the rough bed and sobbed. She
would grieve still, but the wildness of her grief and despair was gone,
scattered by the knowledge that however their troubles eventuated they
were now one in heart.

She was