What was a girl to do?  Nellie Travers was not of the crying kind, and was denied a vast amount of comfort in consequence.  She stood a few moments quivering under the lash of injustice and insult to which she had been subjected.  She longed for a breath of pure, fresh air; but there would be no enjoyment even in that now.  She needed sympathy and help, if ever girl did, but where was she to find it?  The women who most attracted her and who would have warmly welcomed her at any time—­the women whom she would eagerly have gone to in her trouble—­were practically denied to her.  Mrs. Rayner in her quarrel had declared war against the cavalry, and Mrs. Stannard and Mrs. Ray, who had shown a disposition to welcome Nellie warmly, were no longer callers at the house.  Mrs. Waldron, who was kind and motherly to the girl and loved to have her with her, was so embarrassed by Mrs. Rayner’s determined snubs that she hardly knew how to treat the matter.  She would no longer visit Mrs. Rayner informally, as had been her custom, yet she wanted the girl to come to her.  If she went, Miss Travers well knew that on her return to the house she would be received by a volley of sarcasms about her preference for the society of people who were the avowed enemies of her benefactors.  If she remained in the house, it was to become in person the target for her sister’s undeserved sneers and censure.  The situation was becoming simply unbearable.  Twice she began and twice she tore to fragments the letter for which Mr. Van Antwerp was daily imploring, and this evening she once more turned and slowly sought her room, threw off her wraps, and took up her writing-desk.  It was not yet dark.  There was still light enough for her purpose, if she went close to the window.  Every nerve was tingling with the sense of wrong and ignominy, every throb of her heart but intensified the longing for relief from the thraldom of her position.  She saw only one path to lead her from such crushing dependence.  There was his last letter, received only that day, urging, imploring her to leave Warrener forthwith.  Mrs. Rayner had declared to him her readiness to bring her East provided she would fix an early date for the wedding.  Was it not a future many a girl might envy?  Was he not tender, faithful, patient, devoted as man could be?  Had he not social position and competence?  Was he not high-bred, courteous, refined,—­a gentleman in all his acts and words?  Why could she not love him, and be content?  There on the desk lay a little scrap of note-paper; there lay her pen; a dozen words only were necessary.  One moment she gazed longingly, wistfully, at the far-away, darkening heights of the Rockies, watching the last rose-tinted gleams on the snowy peaks; then with sudden impulse she seized her pen and drew the portfolio to the window-seat.  As she did so, a soldierly figure came briskly down the walk; a pale, clear-cut face glanced up at her casement; a quick light of recognition and pleasure flashed in his eyes; the little forage-cap was raised with courteous grace, though the step never slackened, and Miss Travers felt that her cheek, too, was flushing again, as Mr. Hayne strode rapidly by.  She stood there another moment, and then—­it had grown too dark to write.