buggy-ridin' with Mr. Phillips, or any one else, for that matter, without huntin' all over the place to ask your father, and runnin' out to the field to see if Billy don't object."

"Now, mother, how you do pull a person's words all out of shape!" protested the old man, while Eva seemed to become several inches taller as she straightened up with wrath, and looked defiance at her father and contempt at poor Billy. "Did we say, or even hint at any such thing, Billy?"

Billy had not spoken since Eva's entrance; but now that he was directly appealed to he got up from the table with considerable native dignity, and returned Eva's glance bravely for a moment. "No, we did not," he answered, addressing Mr. Fuller; "and if your wife will take the trouble to make a little better round-up of her recollection, she will remember that what I said was about nobody and nothing but Mr. Phillips and his eighty-acre piece of corn; and she might know by this time that, whatever I felt, I would be the last person to say a word against Miss Eva's doing what she had a mind to; at least I would say it to nobody but Miss Eva herself," and the young fellow marched out of the room with an air of being justly and decently offended. Eva followed him with her eyes, not at all displeased to see how handsomely he bore himself.

"I tell you," declared Mr. Fuller, when Billy had gone, "William Wentworth is not a fellow to be made a fool of, either by himself or by others."

"Nobody ever said he was, that I know of," retorted his wife, who found it in her mind to make an answer, though the remark demanded none.

"There, now, mother," said the farmer, soothingly; and he straightway entered into an explanation of his position to his daughter, and showed how he had only been desirous of discussing the matters of wealth and worldly position in a general way, with perhaps a few

illustrations from their acquaintances, but with no intention of making special applications, or calling in question the propriety of Eva's riding in Phillips' buggy; and when his wife had persisted in introducing this matter, all he had claimed was that what Eva should do was of consequence to others besides herself. "And I'm sure, Eva," he appealed at the end, "you would n't want your old dad to say he did n't care a darn what you did or what became of you; now, would you?"

No indeed, Eva wanted him to say nothing like that; and she kissed the kind old man and brought his pipe, as if she had been the meekest and most obedient child the world had ever known. She was really very loving and tenderhearted, and when she saw how her father, through his weakness for words and evasive discussions and his aversion to displeasing herself, was determined to admit nothing, she forbore to plague him, and resolved to have satisfaction from Billy. He had carried himself with so much independence, and even something approaching disdain, during their pleas ant family dispute, that she had no feelings of compunction on his account. She had felt sorry for him for a minute or two, but the feeling had disappeared as soon as her mother had spoken; and now she went out to where she knew he was smoking cigarettes, for Billy had not been able to leave off this habit after turning from a herder into a plowman, -thinking that her only object was to torment him a little, and that they would then make it up and love each other more than ever.

She found him, as she had expected, at full length upon the grass, in his favorite position and occupying his favorite place near the hammock. The hammock had been procured only after a similar novelty had made its appearance for the benefit of the Misses Phillips, Robert's sisters, and had been swung between its posts but a few weeks; yet

in that time Billy and Eva had become so accustomed to staying there, in the long summer twilight, that it would have been a surprise to either had the other failed to appear.

She gracefully took her place in the hammock, for she was as lithe and full of grace as a leopard, and waited a while in silence; not so much for her lover to begin for she hardly thought he would of his own accord broach the subject she was anxious to discuss -as to enjoy the stillness, and the soft air slightly perfumed by Billy's cigarette, and the gentle twilight hour. The light had faded out of the west, yet the distant level horizon that separated the sombre earth from the descending sky was plainly marked. The moon, just past the meridian, had been growing brighter and brighter as the wealth of color had faded from the clouds, and the shadow of the house, as it crept towards Eva and her lover, became more and more distinct.

Eva gave a little sigh as she thought how pleasant their evenings here had always been, and that to-night she had made up her mind to torment Billy. He was, no doubt, comfortably miserable already; but she should take care, she told herself, that they did not part in anger, and that Billy should be made happy in proportion to his misery before they separated.

"Shall I swing you?" asked Billy at last. She threw him the end of a rope, which Billy had ingeniously woven from half-ripened barley straw, and without disturbing himself he gently swung the hammock and its fair burden back and forth.

"Did you want to talk with me?" she began, holding the other end of the rope. It was the next best thing to holding his hand, she thought, and had the advantage of affording him no assurance that she was going to make him miserable only from wantonness.

66

"How nice!" she exclaimed, with a sneer so slight that it was entirely lost on Billy. But then," she continued, "you said at supper that you had something to complain of to Miss Eva herself."

"I did n't mean that, and, if I remember, that was n't just what I said." "Well, it sounded like that. What did you say, then?"

"That if I intended to complain of you I would do it to you, yourself.”

"Well, you called me Miss Eva,' and seemed very high and mighty, any way." The tormenting and complaining were going to be more difficult to bring about than she had thought for, at least in the way she wished. It was easy enough for her to find fault and be bothered at his coolness; but the mischievous delight she had promised herself was not to be had in this manner.

the rope with which he had been swinging her. When the hammock had somewhat ceased its vibrations he began pacing up and down by her side.

"If he is one of your friends "he said, at last, quite mildly. He was evidently going to humble himself; but to see him in this attitude was not so pleasant to Miss Eva as to see him haughty and defiant. Then she was not yet ready to make him happy, and had found the way in which she could torment him to her heart's content.

"Well, he is," she interrupted him, "one of my very best friends; and he is one who knows what is due to others, besides being a man who has ideas about something else than corn and cattle."

"And he's got a new buggy and fine horses," went on Billy, taking up the note, and giving it a bitterly caustic tone, "and his father owns over two thousand acres of land, — it don't make any difference if he did jump a poor widow-woman's claim, just so he's got the land, — and he's been away to school, and he knows better than to waste his time plowin' corn and savin' up his money for the sake of any one he's in love with. His father will give him a farm and plenty of stock, when he's ready to get married, and he can afford to have ideas above doin' that. I know," he continued, disregarding Eva's efforts to interrupt him, and stopping his walk, -Eva, frightened at his vehemence, had raised herself in the hammock, and was holding on by the meshes, "I know your mother wants you to throw me over for him; she never has liked me since since you began to, and she thinks I'm not good enough for you, which God knows I ain't; but I'm better than he is, and I will swear at him, out of your hearin'; but I want you to know I will, even if he is one of your dearest friends. . . . I've got ideas above bein' a clodhopper, too; and if bein' faithful, and steady, and hard workin', and lovin' won't win you, I'll carry 'em

out. Ranche life is glorious and free, and the best man wins. You can go and have your best friend, if you want him; but I'll not go down on my knees to him, nor put up his horses for him, and I'll swear at him all I please." Just then some one rode up. “Oh, it's Mr. Phillips!" exclaimed Eva, in a frightened whisper. "He said he did n't think he should come over tonight. What shall I do? Don't go away, Billy; you are all wrong," and she put out her hand with a detaining, almost an imploring gesture, as she turned to speak to Mr. Phillips, who had dismounted, and was approaching them, with the bridle-rein over his arm. But Billy had strode away without noticing her, muttering to himself, "I'll swear at him, damn him; and if he says any thing to me I'll shoot him." He passed the house absently, and as he came opposite the open window he heard Mrs. Fuller's voice, saying to her husband, "Eva told me he was coming either tonight or to-morrow to ask her to marry him ; and Billy struck out over the prairie, not caring what direction he took.

ness.

His heart was full of rage and bitterHe thought for a time that he would steal back after they had all gone to bed, put a few things together, and start for the grazing grounds; then he felt that he must see Eva once more; and when he had somewhat recovered his equanimity he decided to do nothing rash. He knew the old farmer was on his side, and he had Eva's promise; he remembered that harvest was coming on, and that it would be rather mean to leave the old man in the lurch, with no hands to be had in the county. had never met this Phillips; had only heard of him through Mrs. Fuller and Eva, and had seen him once or twice si a distance. He would be sensible and strong; he would do his best; and if Eva married Phillips for his money, why, he would be fortunate in losing her.

He

So he turned, and went back to the farm-house. But when he saw that there was still a light in the front room, all his wrath came back to him. He knew it must be late; for though, in his excitement, he had not noticed the lapse of time, yet he had watched the moon go down; and he reasoned that Phillips must have received encouragement, or he would not have stayed so long. He could not get to his room without disturbing Eva and her companion, and he determined to wait about the outbuildings until Phillips had gone, and then carry out his first plan. He would not even try to see Eva before he started away to resume his old and favorite occupation.

He wandered aimlessly about, taking his last look at the dim outlines of the house and stable and the tall, slim frame that supported the windmill, and at the granaries and corn-crib. It was in the shelter of the last low, broad building that he had asked Eva to marry him, the November before. He remembered exactly how it had happened: how he had been sorting out some of the best ears for seed-corn, while the first snow of the winter was flying fitfully about the corners of the buildings, and the wind whistled sharply through the open boards. He recalled how Eva's bright smile had lighted up the little cave he had made at the door of the crib, when she came to ask for a few ears to parch, -she always parched corn on the day of the first snow, and how her presence had shut out the cold and storm, as the golden corn, piled high around them, had seemed to separate them from the world.

He thought of how happy and full of joy they had been, and how lightheartedly they had laughed when finally, forgetting all about her errand, she had gone to the house, only to come out to him again. But now, as he looked in through the little door where she had appeared that November day to make him happy, there was nothing but dreary

emptiness, and the damp odor of mouldering corn.

Billy turned away with a sharp pain. He was not a sentimental fellow, but he really loved Eva, and the contrast between that afternoon and now affected him. "I never want to smell that smell again," he thought, and congratulated himself that in the life he was going to live he never would. He looked towards the house: the light was out, and he might reach his room without meeting any one. So he struck across the yard, setting his lips firmly. Just as he came opposite the stable he saw some one lead a horse out, and then stop, apparently to tighten the girths.

Billy wanted no interview with Phillips, and stepped out of sight behind the building, but not before he had been noticed.

"Hey! what are you prowling round here for?" demanded the dim figure. "It's none o' your business," replied Billy, coming out again into view.

The man scanned him closely in the uncertain starlight. "Ah, young fellow, if you belong to the house, it's all right. But you'd better get inside as quick as God a'mighty 'll let you, and cover your head with the bedclothes; and don't budge till you 're called for breakfast."

Billy was not hypercritical, but he could not help thinking that this was rather coarse language for a man who knew what was due to others, and who had ideas above corn and cattle. He was in no mood, however, to allow anybody to speak so to him, much less Robert Phillips: So he politely invited him to go to a place where cow-boys very often ask their enemies and friends alike

to go.

"Don't give me any o' your chin, young chap, or I'll knock your head off," and he started toward Billy menacingly.

Billy swore a great oath and drew his revolver, which he was never without. "Keep off!" he cried. "I'll let daylight

His victim threw his arms wildly in the air, and fell heavily to the ground. Billy was stunned for a moment by what he had done. He had always heard such deeds made light of, but he had never been an actor, or even a witness, in the broils that give rise to them. The reality was somehow much more terrible than he had ever conceived it. "My God, I've killed him!" he thought, as he stood with his smoking weapon in his hand and the fallen man's groan ringing in his ears. The horse, frightened at the report, had galloped off, making for the open prairie, and Billy was brought to consider his own position by seeing a light appear in the windows of the house. Tige was barking savagely, and he could hear the old farmer trying to quiet him. He heard some one call his name, and imagined for a moment that he recognized Eva's voice.

"She has guessed what's happened," thought Billy," and she's anxious for him," and he turned away bitterly, with no wish but to keep out of sight, to get away from Eva and her kind-hearted old father, who had always been so good to him. The idea of escaping the penalty of his act did not occur to him; never to be seen or heard of again by any one here who had known him, was all he cared for.

He never knew exactly how the rest of that night wore away. He struck into the corn-field first, thinking its dark aisles would afford him a safe hiding place from immediate pursuit; but he kept seeing in the swaying blades the

man's wildly waving arms, and in their rustle he heard his heavy groan. “Shall I always remember them?" he asked himself, as he stumbled on desperately over the rough ground. He felt a great relief when at last he had crossed the field, and found himself on the open prairie beyond. He stood for a moment on the edge of this broad expanse, now buried in the darkness and stillness of the night. It seemed endless, boundless, a great stretch of void and awful space. In spite of his familiarity with the prairies he could not keep off a feeling of loneliness, a sense of solitude that was fearful to him. That he had need to be alone and solitary but made him dread it the more. The cause of the feeling was identical with the reason for the necessity; and the stillness, the monotony, the extent, the emptiness, of the prairie came over him with a power he had never dreamed of before. silent, unseen force had dwelt in the prairie and its attributes from the beginning of time; but he had never realized its nature and immensity till now, and now it seemed to crush him. He knew the change was in himself, and he thought with a great fear of the years of days and nights he was to live in the widest and dreariest of those unchanging prairies. "I wonder why I can't think of the first part of my life there," he said, meaning the farm, “and not only of the last hour of it." But he felt that what the last hour had brought forth would be with him distinct and terrible, when all the months of trivial things would have become dim and faded in his memory.

This

At last he started across the prairie. He had a plan dimly shaped in his head to go to Speedville. He owned a pony, which a young lawyer there was keeping in return for his use. He would claim his pony, and ride up into the Loup country. But he wandered aimlessly over the level ground without thinking of the direction of Speedville,