They went down to the creek one fine morning early in April.  There had been a sudden thaw of the snows up the gorges of the Rockies, and the stream had overleaped its banks, spread over the lowlands, and flooded some broad depressions in the prairie.  Then, capricious as a woman’s moods, the wind whistled around from the north one night and bound the lakelets in a band of ice.  The skating was gorgeous, and all the pretty ankles on the post were rejoicing in the opportunity before the setting of another sun.  Coming homeward at luncheon-time, Mrs. Rayner, Mrs. Buxton, Miss Travers, and one or two others, escorted by a squad of bachelors, strolled somewhat slowly along Prairie Avenue towards the gate.  It so happened that the married ladies were foremost in the little party, when who should meet them but Mr. Hayne, coming from the east gate!  Mrs. Rayner and Mrs. Buxton, though passing him almost elbow to elbow, looked straight ahead or otherwise avoided his eye.  He raised his forage-cap in general acknowledgment of the presence of ladies with the officers, but glanced coldly from one to the other until his blue eyes lighted on Miss Travers.  No woman in that group could fail to note the leap of sunshine and gladness to his face, the instant flush that rose to his cheek.  Miss Travers, herself, saw it quickly, as did the maiden walking just behind her, and her heart bounded at the sight.  She bowed as their eyes met, spoke his name in low tone, and strove to hide her face from Mr. Blake, who turned completely around and stole a sudden glance at her.  She could no more account for than she could control it, but her face was burning.  Mrs. Rayner, too, looked around and stared at her, but this she met firmly, her dark eyes never quailing before the angry glare in her sister’s.  Blake was beginning to like Hayne and to dislike Mrs. Rayner, and he always did like mischief.

“You owe me a grudge, Miss Travers, if you did but know it,” he said, so that all could hear.

“You, Mr. Blake!  How can that be possible?”

“I spoiled a serenade for you a few nights ago.  I was officer of the day, and caught sight of a man gazing up at your window after midnight.  I felt sure he was going to sing:  so, like a good fellow, I ran over to play an accompaniment, and then—­would you believe it?—­he wouldn’t sing, after all.”

She was white now.  Her eyes were gazing almost imploringly at him.  Something warned him to hold his peace, and he broke off short.

“Who was it?  Oh, do tell us, Mr. Blake!” were the exclamations, Mrs. Rayner being most impetuous in her demands.  Again Blake caught the appeal in Miss Travers’s eyes.

“That’s what I want to know,” he responded, mendaciously.  “When I woke up next morning, the whole thing was a dream, and I couldn’t fix the fellow at all.”

There was a chorus of disappointment and indignation.  The idea of spoiling such a gem of a sensation!  But Blake took it all complacently, until he got home.  Then it began to worry him.