“Forgive me, How,” she pleaded.  “I didn’t mean to hurt you.  I’m nervous and irresponsible, that’s all.  Please forgive me; please!”

* * * * *

At a dawdling little prairie stream, superciliously ignored by the map-maker, yet then and now travelling its aimless journey from nowhere to nowhere under the name of Mink Creek, they halted for the night.

Though they had been driving steadily all the afternoon, save once when, far to the south, they had detected the blot of a grazing herd, they had seen no sign of human presence.  They saw no indication now.  The short fall day was drawing to a close.  The sun, red as maple leaf in autumn, was level with the earth when How Landor pulled up beside the low sloping bank, and, the girl watching from her observation seat in the old surrey, unharnessed and watered the team and hobbled them amid the tall frost-cured grass to feed.

“Now for the tent,” he said on returning.  “Will your highness have it face north, south, east, or west?”

“East, please, How.  I want to see the sun when it first comes up in the morning.”

With the methodical swiftness of one accustomed to his work the man set about his task.  The tent, his own, was in the rear of the waggon box.  The furnishings, likewise his own, were close packed beside.  More quickly than the watcher fancied it possible the whole began to take shape.  Long before the glory had left the western sky the tent itself was in place.  Before the chill, which followed so inevitably and swiftly, was in the air the diminutive soft coal heater was installed and in service.  Following, produced from the same receptacle as by legerdemain, vanishing mysteriously within the mushroom house, followed the blanket bed, the buffalo robes, the folding chairs and table, the frontier “grub” chest.  Last of all, signal to the world that the task was complete, the battered lantern with the tin reflector was trimmed and lit and, adding the final touch of comfort and of intimacy that light alone can give, was hung from its old hook on the ridge pole.  Then at last, the first shadows of night stealing over the soundless earth, the man approached the lone spectator and held out his arms for her to descend.

“Come, Bess,” he said.  He smiled up at her as only such a man at such a time can smile.  “This is my night.  I’m going to do everything; cook supper and all.  Come, girlie.”

* * * * *

The meal was over, and again, as on that other occasion when Colonel William Landor had called, the two people within the tent occupied the same positions.  In the folding rocking chair sat the girl, the light from the single lantern playing upon her brown head and soft oval face.  In the partial darkness of the corner, stretched among the buffalo robes, lay the man.  His arms were locked behind his head.  His face was toward her.  His eyes—­eyes unbelievably soft and innocent for a mature man—­were