e to surprise them. As I crossed the hall I heard
Parker's voice. Could I have mistaken the house? was it really his voice
I heard? Yes: he was telling Kitty how he had broken the three-year-old
colt to side-saddle, so when she came to Trocalara she must give up her
old pony. I knew then why Kitty had kept him there so long: he had lost
his reason and she wished to keep me from knowing it!

"'But no. I stood still and listened, and heard him tell her how he had
always loved her, apparently going over an old story to her. My God! I
would as soon have told the Virgin I loved her! And then I heard her
voice. "When I am your wife--" she began.

"'It all flashed on me in an instant then. I slipped noiselessly out,
and if they heard "Odd Trick's" gallop on the turf it was not because
his hoofs lingered too long there.

"'I can't remember how I passed that night. The revelation had been so
sudden that the words seemed to be written in my heart and to be carried
through every vein with each beat. "When I am your wife--" What would
the result be? _Our_ Kitty was to be his wife? Could I still stay at the
ranch? "When I am your wife--" and I loved her!

"'The next day I went into Junta and saw them both. I told Parker how
the herd stood, and how the shooting had been in the mountains, but I
never had the courage to look at her.

"'After a while she went to the piano and played "Home:" then she came
and sat down by me and said, "I have told Parker I will go home with
him: I will try to be a sister to you."

"'I believe I only stared at her, and then wrung Parker's hand and went
out.

"'He married her the next month, and--and--Trocalara has been heaven
ever since.

"'I never knew what a Christian was before she came: you know we have no
faith in Texas in things we can't draw a bead on. But when she read me
the story of the Scribes and Pharisees and Christ I felt ashamed to be
like those Flat-heads and Greasers in the New Testament who did not
believe in him; and now I feel sure of knowing some one in heaven, for
Kitty has promised to find me there.'

"I forget a great many of the incidents he told us," Donaldson went on
in the quiet that was almost equal to the calm around us; "and I dare
say it would bore you to listen. But he certainly was the most
extraordinary man I ever met. I can't do justice to his expressions, for
they lack his soft voice and curious hesitation. I wish we had him here,
though."

"Did you never h