Her weakness was only momentary, however; her courage, bred from the wildness of her life surroundings, rose superior to her feminine weakness.  She dashed her gloved hands across her eyes and wiped the tears away.  She felt that she must be doing—­not weeping.  Had not she sealed a solemn compact with her lover?  She must to work without delay.

She glanced round the room.  Her gaze was that of one who wishes to reassure herself.  It was as if the old life had gone from her and she was about to embark on a career new—­foreign to her.  A career in which she could see no future—­only the present.  She felt like one taking a long farewell to a life which had been fraught with nothing but delight.  The expression of her face told of the pain of the parting.  With a heavy sigh she passed out of the room—­out into the chill night air, where even the welcome sounds of the croaking frogs and the lowing cattle were not.  Where nothing was to cheer her for the work which in the future must be hers.  Something of that solemn night entered her soul.  The gloom of disaster was upon her.

It was only a short distance to Dr. Abbot’s house.  The darkness of the night was no hindrance to the girl.  Hither she made her way with the light, springing step of one whose mind is made up to a definite purpose.

She found Mrs. Abbot in.  The little sitting-room in the doctor’s house was delightfully homelike and comfortable.  There was nothing pretentious about it—­just solid comfort.  And the great radiating stove in the center of it smelt invitingly warm to the girl as she came in out of the raw night air.  Mrs. Abbot was alternating between a basket of sewing and a well-worn, cheap-edition novel.  The old lady was waiting with patience, the outcome of experience, for the return of her lord to his supper.

“Well, ‘Aunt’ Margaret,” said Jacky, entering with the confidence of an assured welcome, “I’ve come over for a good gossip.  There’s nobody at home—­up there,” with a nod in the direction of the ranch.

“My dear child, I’m so pleased,” exclaimed Mrs. Abbot, coming forward from her rather rigid seat, and kissing the girl on both cheeks with old-fashioned cordiality.  “Come and sit by the stove—­yes, take that hideous hat off, which, by the way, I never could understand your wearing.  Now, when John and I were first en—­”

“Yes, yes, dear.  I know what you’re going to say,” interrupted the girl, smiling in spite of the dull aching at her heart.  She knew how this sweet old lady lived in the past, and she also knew how, to a sympathetic ear, she loved to pour out the delights of memory from a heart overflowing with a strong affection for the man of her choice.  Jacky had come here to talk of other matters, and she knew that when “Aunt” Margaret liked she could be very shrewd and practical.

Something in the half-wistful smile of her companion brought the old lady quickly back from the realms of recollection, and a pair of keen, kindly eyes met the steady gray-black orbs of the girl.