But the ride that morning was constrained.  Each felt in some subtle way that their pleasant companionship was coming to a crisis.  Ahead in that town would be letters, communications from the outside world of friends, people who did not know or care what these two had been through together, and who would not hesitate to separate them with a firm hand.  Neither put this thought into words, but it was there in their hearts, in the form of a vague fear.  They talked very little, but each was feeling how pleasant the journey had been, and dreading what might be before.

They wanted to stay in this Utopia of the plains, forever journeying together, and never reaching any troublesome futures where were laws and opinions by which they must abide.

But the morning grew bright, and the road was not half long enough.  Though at the last they walked their horses, they reached the town before the daily train had passed through.  They went straight to the station, and found that the train was an hour late; but a telegram had arrived for the man.  He took it nervously, his fingers trembling.  He felt a premonition that it contained something unpleasant.

The girl sat on her horse by the platform, watching him through the open station door where he was standing as he tore open the envelope.  She saw a deathly pallor overspread his face, and a look of anguish as if an arrow had pierced his heart.  She felt as if the arrow had gone on into her own heart, and then she sat and waited.  It seemed hours before he glanced up, with an old, weary look in his eyes.  The message read: 

“Your mother seriously ill.  Wants you immediately.  Will send your baggage on morning train.  Have wired you are coming.”

It was signed by his cousin with whom he had been taking his hunting-trip, and who was bound by business to go further West within a few days more.

The strong young man was almost bowed under this sudden stroke.  His mother was very dear to him.  He had left her well and happy.  He must go to her at once, of course; but what should he do with the girl who had within the last two days taken so strong a hold upon his—­he hesitated, and called it “protection.”  That word would do in the present emergency.

Then he looked, and saw her own face pale under the tan, and stepped out to the platform to tell her.

CHAPTER VIII

THE PARTING

She took the news like a Spartan.  Her gentle pity was simply expressed, and then she held her peace.  He must go.  He must leave her.  She knew that the train would carry him to his mother’s bedside quicker than a horse could go.  She felt by the look in his eyes and the set of his mouth that he had already decided that.  Of course he must go.  And the lady was there too!  His mother and the lady!  The lady would be sorry by this time, and would love him.  Well, it was all right.  He had been good to her.  He had been a strong, bright angel God had sent to help her out of the wilderness; and now that she was safe the angel must return to his heaven.  This was what she thought.