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^JjrrtiOR. or "THE COU/ PUNCHER';
srtAo ______ THE HOMESTEADER?:
SYNOPSIS
CHAPTER I.— Lured by Lane, hi# four
mar-old playrnat#, Jean Frank
Stall, •Mdtn a*ed wall six, ventures In o« small the for- On¬
of a dam. a
tario town. He falls Into the water,
*ad 1# saved Jean's from possible death by
•Unglue Jf«xt to he has outstretched vision of arms. .
day informs a him that because romance of j j
•rhen Jean
fc Uiefr adventure of the day before he 1a
i duty ‘5 bound to marry her. He agrees,
l# only proviso being "grownups." that they are to
wait until they are
00 in, 3HAPTER j II.—With Jean's brother begin#
lt> also aged six, Frank Joined
aohool. fcy Two years later they are Marjorie.
A Jean and Frank'# sister
little later Jean confides to Frank,
n verse, her hope of some day becom
fog eg “J^ra "Mrs. Halt." Moll ” Ua He accept# a/tnanta tlio the “r.Pn- "pro- hi#
»o»at" Mat’ Frank He 1# fourteen when
toother dies. take# a Job in the
asili where hi# father works. The boys
are killed eighteen when John’s father 1#
In an accident. Two years later
Frank'# father and John's mother are
married. Dissatisfied with conditions,
and ambitious, the two boy# make
stead," ■lana to go to Manitoba and “home¬
them. the girls agreeing to go with
They set out.
"Jake," CHAPTER for for,. III, At Regina consldera- they meet
who who a monetary .
tton homesteads. agrees to find them satisfactory
He does so. and the two
blends file claims on Sections Fourteen
and Twenty-two.
CHAPTER IV.—Jake sagely advises
the plies, adventurers and In in the drawn purchase by ot yoke sup¬
if a wagon four a
oxen, and with a cow, the set
•ut for their future homes.
CHAPTER V. — Construction bf
"•hacks" and the making of a garden
are their first occupations. There la
a which pond pf good them water on Frank's dig farm,
Herves until they a
well. A young Englishman of the name
of "Spoof" Is a neighbor of theirs. They
pall Breeding on Spoof, and education, typical Englishman who is'llvlng of
in a tent. ^
1 CHAPTER VI.—Spoof, on his return
Visit, discloses himself a# a man of
varied social attainments. He promise#
to frank give has the girls lessons feeling on the that banjo.
Fr an uneasy Jean
taken an altogether unnecessary and
undesirable aroused. interest in, him. His Jeal¬
ousy Is
CHAPTER VII.—Marjorie discover#
that they have a new neighbor, and the
four drive over to welcome him. "He"
turns out to be a Mrs. Alton, a wid¬
owed Englishwoman, who, with her
* three-year-old claim. The son Gerald has taken up
a three women take to each
other Fourteen at once. Spoof, banjo, on a visit to
with his is told of the
new neighbor#. Frank Imagines the
mention of the boy's name. Gerald, ha#
a dlsauletlng effect on spoof.
CHAPTER VUI.—Frank and John
leave the homesteads for a time to do
harvest work for wage.# on a longer
established farm. They encounter Jake,
who tells them of his adventure Into
matrimony. After two homes. months' absence
they return to their Jean's en¬
thusiastic welcome stirs Frank to the
belief that Jean return# his love, but
he still has a lingering doubt.
CHAPTER IX.—The land sections be¬
gin to fill up with settlers of aN na¬
tionalities. Jake and his wife have
located In the neighborhood. Mrs. Alton
remains strangely aloof. Winter sets In.
CHAPTER X
flays wore by; sometimes daysf of
unbroken sunshine; sometimes days
of gently sifted whiteness fluttering
out of a gray sky. In a week all the
prairie was blanketed deep with snow.
Then came the great night.
At this time of the year, in this Itttl
ture, it Is dark by live Jn the after¬
noon, particularly If the sky happen
to be overcast. On the day in Ques¬
tion Jack and 1 had done up our few
chores about the stable, carried In a
supply of water and tirewood, and re¬
turned to our shacks for supper. Mar¬
jorie, brisk, efficient housewife that
she was. bad the table set when 1
came In. Our meals were perforce
simple, and when we had finished and
the few dishes were cleared away I
looked at my watch. It was barely
six o’clock.
“This Is going to be another of our
long, long evenings,” Marjorie re¬
marked, with what seemed like a sug¬
gestion of complaining. "Suppose you
ask Jack and Jean to come over; I
don’t feel like going out In the snow.”
“Jean may not feel like going out,
either," 1 retorted. “1 guess she’s as
much like sugar as you are,” I added,
having in my mind some reference to
an adage about sugar melting.
“I fancy you think she’s a good deal
more like sugar than 1 am, brother o’
mine,” Marjorie returned, “Well, run
along and find out.”
Later, when I recalled that remark,
I was struck by Its significance, but
at the moment I had no suspicion that
J«t;k and Marjorie were working a
scheme on me. I have always held
that Jean was innocent of any part
in it.
So urged, I pulled on ray pea-jacket
and overshoes and fur cap and started
out on the hundred-yard jaunt from
our shack to the one across the gully.
I made the trip ..without difficulty
and entered without knocking as was
our custom in our numerous visits
tack and forth. Jean looked up from
the table where she sat reading.
*Alone, Frank?” she said, when I
had closed the door behind me.
“Yes; where’s Jack? I came to
“Jack left for Fourteen seme time
age. He was going to ask yon and
Marjorie to come over. You must
have passed him.”
“That’s rather funny, * That’s what
I Came for, If you reverse it Strange
I didn’t see him on the way.”
“He may have looked in at the
stable again, to make sure that the
stock are all right,” Jean suggested
“He said It looked like rough
weather.”
I stood for a moment, undecided
whether I should go back for Jack
and Marjorie, or ask Jean to go with
me. It was she who settled the ques¬
tion.
“Take off ( your things, Frank,” she
invited. “Jack will be there by this
time, and will keep Marjorie com¬
pany. It Is not a good night for a
girl to go walking.”
So I stayed, although a little self¬
consciously. Jean and I had known
each other’s company since childhood,
but, at least since coming to the
West, we had hardly seen each other
alone. Always Jack or Marjorie, or
both, were somewhere about. There
had been, of course, that sudden, im¬
petuous, unspoken revelation when
we returned from our harvest ab¬
sence in the settlements, but there
had been no talk of love between Jean
and me. I had treasured that moment
as a bit of wonderful memory, as a
glimpse of wonderful promise, but I
had not presumed upon It; I had con¬
cluded that two months’ loneliness
had been too much for Jean’s reserve,
and that she had done something it
hardly would be fair 'd:o talk about.
. , . Doubtless Jack, when lie found
I had missed him, would be back
shortly. .
I took my wraps oft and Sat down
beside the stove. The warmth was
very pleasant after the buffeting of
the snow, and Jean looked very lovely
and tempting Ip the soft glow of the
lamp on the (able. I felt a strange
embarrassment growing upon me as
the moments were ticked off by the
little alarm clock on the shelf. The
embarrassment grew until I felt that
I "must break It by speech of some
kind.
“What are you reading?” I ven¬
tured at last
“Nothing.”
“Nothing! You have a book—”
“I know, but I’m not reading It.”
“Then what are you doing?"
“Just waiting.”
"Waiting? For what?”
Then she looked up at me, and there
was a light in her eyes that was
strange and good to see, but it sent my
brain reeling. For a moment she
looked at me thus, and started my
heart thump-thumping like a steam
pump. Then her eyes drooped.
“Don’t you know, Frank?” she mur¬
mured.
Her face was ruddy in the glow of
die lamp, and the pink skin shone a
color that was not all reflected. Amaz¬
ing as was her revelation I could no
longer fail to understand it. I rose
and walked to the table; I took her
hands in mine and lifted her to her
feet.
' "You are waiting for me to—kiss
you, Jean,” I whispered.
She was trembling^ but she spoke
with outward composure. “There Is
something else, first."
“Something else—first? 1 don’t un¬
derstand.”
“You should."
I could not follow her thought “I
kissed you once before," I ventured.
“Many times onceJ before.”
“No, only The other times
were when we were children, They
don’t count.”
“Do things that har>pened“When we
were children not count—with you?”
“Do they—with you?”
“Ask me. and see.”
It had come; the moment of which
1 had told myself in dreams and
visions; the moment to which 1 had
looked forward with a strung® featr
and a great hope. “Je*m.” 1 whispered.
“I love you. Will you be my wife?"
As 1 write the words they seem very
bare and matter-of-fact. But they were
all that Jean required. Site made no
spoken answer, but she turned her face
to mine, and I drew her up iu my
strong arms and kissed her in the
breathless passion of our young
love, . . ,
After a time, with one box serving
us both, we talked of our future. 1
hinted that circumstances made our
immediate marriage somewhat de¬
pendent upon the course that Jack and
Marjorie might elect to follow. I took
it for granted that Jack and Marjorie
would marry, but I was very vague in
my idea as to when this would happen.
"I don't think we shall have to wait
on Jack and Marjorie,” Jean remarked,
knowingly. “I rather think they have
been waiting on us.”
“Then they need wait no longer,” I
said, boldly. "I am ready at once;
now."
“We might make It by Christmas,”
Jean remarked, more thoughtfully.
"We can’t afford any special wedding
clothes but we can at least afford a
few weeks’ anticipation."
“Then Christmas be it 1” I exclaimed.
“Oh, Merry Christmas!”
I was so stirred with > strange new
joy that all the future looked "rosy and
Inviting. But suddenly I felt Jean’s
arm tighten on my neck and I looked
up in her face just in time to catch
the splash of a warm tear on my
cheek. I was immediately filled with
wonder and misgiving. What could
make Jean cry in a tnoment of such
happiness? I pressed the question.
‘T’m not sorry,” she said at length,
“but I’m'a little—frightened. Not for
you; for myself. Oh, my dear Frank,
my dear boy—will you always—will
we always—l#e each other as we do
tonight?”
Manlike, I assured her that of
course we would. She rested her head
against mine, and for awhile she
seemed to nestle at peace in the soft
luxury of our love. But presently a
shiver ran through her frame, and
drawing back a little, she looked me
fairly in the eyes.
“You know, Frank,” she murmured,
“it seems strange to say it, but I
am so glad to get this settled.”
“Not gladder than I, little one,” said
I, shaping my lips to endearments with
the awkwardness of my racial reti¬
cence. “You couldn’t be gladder than
I am.!’
”1 have waited so long,” she con¬
tinued, almost disregarding my inter¬
ruption, “to get it settled—to be sure
of myself—to know just what is going
to ’happen.”
“To te sure of yourself? How sure
of yourself T'
She dropped into a moment’s silence,
as though studying her words before
attempting an answer. “You won’t mis¬
understand, I think, Frank,” she said
at length, “If I tell you that I have
been somewhat like a traveler on the
prairie who comes upon two roads,
and is not quite sure which he should
take. Let us say a storm is sweeping
down from the nortlp and his very life
depends on the stands right decision. But the
longer he there, looking at
them, the harder It is to make the
choice. It’s a comfort to choose, and
be on one’s way.”
“But suppose lie chooses the wrong
way?” I blundered out, only half fol¬
lowing her meaning.
“Oh, Frank 1” she cried, seizing rny
shoulders in her strong, supple hands.
“It mustn’t, mustn’t, mustn’t be the
wrong way! I won’t have it the wrong
way—I won’t think of that as pos¬
sible! See, here we are. And we have
known, always, since we were little
children, that we were for each other,
haven’t we, Frank? It has always
been settled, in heaven, don’t you
think, and we have just’ continued It?
Ob, I know it has—I know It has!"
“I have never doubted it,” I said.
And even as I uttered the words the
first little poisoned arrow of doubt
in some way dodged through my armor
and stung me in the heart. Perhaps
it was the reaction to Jean’s ve¬
hemence; perhaps it was that I saw
her striving over-hard to convince her
selt And from being over-sure I now
craved to be assured.
“You are quite sure?” I ventured,
after another silence in which I felt
that subtle poison slowly chilling
through my-veins. “You are quite ^ure
you should not have taken the road to
section Two?”
“Oh, Frank!” for a moment she
buried her face in my shoulder, then
she lifted her head proudly, like one
who goes forth resolutely to try hip
/spirit in some great issue. “Yes, I’m
mure! Spoof Is to rfie only a neighbor,
an acquaintance, always. I am quite
sure.”
“And there was no third trail, no
little-beaten third path that might
have been the one to be chosen?” I
persisted, anxious to stifle my demon
of doubt at its birth,
"You are thinking of Brook,” she
caught me up instantly. “Let that give
you no uneasiness. Brook was only
an incident—a rather pleasaut inci¬
dent,” she added, and for the first
time I realized how exquisitely tan¬
talizing Jean could be, “but- an inci¬
dent, after all. Let’s not talk about
if, or think about it, any more, at all.
Everything is settled.”
So, by force of will, we turned our
minds into happy, unquestioning chan¬
nels, and talked of the future, our fu¬
ture—and built fairy dream castles
that were most wonderful things to
dream about. From time to time Jean
arose from my knee to throw fresh
wood on the fire but she needed no
coaxing to return. Some strange phe¬
nomenon had already occurred between
us, and Jean, with all her gentleness
and beauty and delicacy,' no longer
walled herself about with quite the
same barrier of shyness as had been
her custom. But her soul. I knew, was
as pure as the snow sifting across the
white prairies outside.
At last we had to come hack to
earth. “It’s growing colder,” said
Jean, as she again replenished the
fire. Then, glancing at the little clock
on the shelf, “Why, it’s after midnight!
Jack is late.”
“Are you uneasy for him?”
“No—why should I? Jack is all
right. And I have you. But I thought
he would have been back before this.
. . . Listen!”
We strained our ears, and presently
became aware that what had seemed
to be the silence of the night was
really full of noises. The wind
whined with an eerie note about the
eaves of the little shack, and the
tremor of its pressure ran through
the board walls and wrung mournfuj
ereakings from the slender framework
of the building. Above all came a
sound of rushing, as though the night
Itself swept by, drumming on the tin
chimneypiece as it went. The inces¬
sant lash of snow against the black
panes of the windows gave further
notice of the rising storm.
“Perhaps I had better go horn®" I
said at length. “Jack is doubtless wait¬
ing there until I turn up.”
“You have the same privilege to wait
here until he turns up," Jean com¬
mented. “Still, I suppose It's the right
thing to do."
So, reluctantly enough, I got into
my peajacket, cap, and overshoes, and
with Jean’s goodnight kiss on my lips,
and a promise tp come again very
soon, I opened the door. The moment
I did so the suction of the storm put
out the light, and the next Instant a
flail of icy snow particles lashed
through the room. I pressed the door
shut again while Jean found matches.
“Such a night r she exclaimed. “Is
It quite safe to try It?”
“Of course! It’s not a hundred
yards, and I could make It with my
eyes shut”
So, with another farewell (for good
measure) I started again, Jean shad¬
ing the lamp while I rushed through
the door and closed it behind me. My
first sensation was of having been
clutched by the neck; of being stran¬
gled In a grip which I could not throw
off. In a few moments the worst of
that sensation passed, and my lungs
began pumping violently, working
against the partial vacuum created by
the storm. It was not very cold, but
the snow stung the face where It
struck; it clung in the eyebrows,
melted, and ran into the eyes, blurring
such poor vision as there was in the
gaunt grayness that buffeted from
every side.
I looked for the light of the shack
on Fourteen, but it was nowhere to be
seen; evidently its faint rays could not
beat their way through the hundred
yards of swirling tempest that inter¬
vened. So, taking careful note of my
directions, I started out, my head
bowed to save my face from the lash¬
ing of the storm; my legs wallowing
uncertainly through the varying depths
of drifts.
At length I knew 1 had come to the
edge of the gully; although I could see
nothing I was aware that I was going
sharply down a steep slope. Here at
points the snow was already piled in
great drifts and 1 plunged through it
waist deep, only to come suddenly
upon a bare, ley spot where I lost im¬
balance and fell. I was now at the
bottom of the coulee, and the ascent
proved even more difficult than coming
down, f had to plow through deep
drifts and scramble up icy ledges, and
I could only suppose that I had reached
the top by the greater violence of the
storm. Nothing was to be seen but a
gray mist; my eyes were almost com¬
pletely dosed with snow and ice. I
was not cold; indeed, I was warm, but
I began to realize that my exertions
and the strangling sensation I felt in
breathing were quickly exhausting me.
However, there could not be much
further to go, and I pressed on.
It is wonderful how little sense of
distance the average man has when
deprived of the service of his eyes.
He may walk a road every day in the
year and yet have but a faint idea of
the number of paces it represents. He
probabjy could not tell you how many
steps there are In the stairs of his
house. As to direction he is even more
hopelessly at sea, and when, in addi¬
tion to these difficulties, he is plunging
waist deep through snow drifts and
buffeted by a fifty-mile gale he is in
imminent danger of becoming hope¬
lessly lost. Just how- near to that state
I had come I began to realize, and it
was with more relief than I would have
cared to admit that I at length dis¬
cerned a faint glow of yellow light
battling against the storm and throw¬
ing fantastic specters into the night.
I was soon at the shack, and, groping
my way along the wall, I reached the
door and burst in.
Jean was sitting by^ the stove, her
wonderful hair down about her back
and neck, her face resting In her
hands, her feet on the rail of the stove
and her dainty ankles peeping out
from under her woolen skirt. But for
the moment my appreciation of her
charms was buried in amazement.
“Jean! what are you doing here?”
“Frank! You’ve come back! What
is the matter?"
I threw off my mitts and rubbed the
snow from my eyes while Jean took
my cap and shook it and then stood by,
eagerness and apprehension In her
face. Then, when I was quite sure
I was not in a dream or a mirage, “1
guess I’m back on Twenty-two, am
I?” I said, as one who, suddenly awak
ened from sleep, finds it impossible to
recall his surroundings.
“You’re on Twenty-two all right, but
why did you come back? Not that I’m
not glad to see you—you know l am.
Frank, dear, always—but. why did yon
come back?"
“I guess it’s because my time hasn’t
come,”, I answered, soberly. “I’ve
heard of getting turned around in a
storm, but 1 didn’t know it could hap¬
pen so easily. I suppose it was when
I fell at the bottom of the gully.”
“Well, you’re here, and we’re not
going to take any more chances,” Said
Jean, slipping her arms about my neck
when I ha'd told her. "We’re going to
have a little supper, and if Jack doesn’t
come you will stay until he does.”
Jean hustled about and my eyes fol¬
lowed every graceful movement as she
prepared hot tea and made toast at the
fire, and found a jar of preserves that
she had cached away for some special
occasion. And when we had finished
our betrothal banquet she gave me a
lamp and sent me into Jack’s room.
And after a little her limpid voice
called to me a last goodnight, and
through the open -doorway of my parti¬
tion—we could not afford unnecessary
doors In those days—I saw her slender
hand tossing me a caress. And then
her light went out, and I lay under
Jack's warm blankets listening to the
roar of the storm and hoping Jack was
quite all right, and marveling at the
amount of happiness one human heart
can hold. My doubts were gone; my
faith was again the faith of a little
child. And my mind wandered back
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“You're on Twenty-Two, All Right, but
Why Did You Come Back?”
Into the past and picked up again those
tender days of childhood when Jean
and I played together beside the dam,
and the sober millwheel across the
stream flung its myriads of diamonds
in the air. And Jean had saved me in
those days, and 1 was to be hers—
hers and she mine, forever!
• «***••
I awakened with a consciousness
that the shack was very, very cold.
Under the blankets I was warm
enough, but the breath with which I
filled my lungs was the breath of the
Arctic. The cabin was In inky dark¬
ness. Outside, the whine of the gale
had risen to a roar, and the frail tim¬
bers of the little shanty creaked and
trembled under its fury- I thought of
Jack, and wondered. The telephone—
best of all God’s gifts through the In¬
ventive mind of man to those whot live
in the isolation of vast distances—
was as yet not in general use on the
prairies. As I look tonight at the
telephone on my desk by means of
which I can speak instantly to Jack’s
house or any other house in the neigh¬
borhood I am reminded that these
miracles of today are accepted so much
as a matter of course that we are in
danger of forgetting what the world
was before they came. But that night
there was no telephone on my wail, or
Jack’s; no fire-shod messengers from
house to house could bear through the
storm the cheerful news that all was
well.
So I thought of Jack and wondered.
Jean had accepted his absence with
composure; she afterwards said that
Brook, the mounted policeman, had
told her that the man who was prairie
wise, when caught away from home
by a storm, stayed where he was safe,
even If his doing so occasioned some
uneasiness to his friends.
“It is better that your friends should
be uneasy while the storm is on than
that they should follow you with flow¬
ers when the weather clears," Brook
had declared, and Jean, after accept¬
ing the philosophy, had passed it on to
Jack. She had no doubt that he was
as safe on Fourteen as was I on Twen¬
ty-two.
But I had none of this philosophy tc
steady me, and I was decidedly uneasy
about Jack. My brief wrestle with the
storm had shown me how easy it was
to become hopelessly lost even among
the most familiar surroundings and
how soon exhaustion would overpowei
one. A little irresistible shiver ol
nervousness ran up my spine as I real
lzed how fortunate I had been in com¬
ing back to my starting point. I mighl
have missed it and gone on into the
night. . . .
As the frost settled down about m*
I at length, by a great effort, sprang
out of bed and went groping for my
clothes. I was not yet pioneer enougl
to know that it is fine business in very
cold weather to sleep with your cloth
ing, of at least your underwear aru
socks, under your pillow; it lessen:
the ordeal of that first break from th<
warm blankets into the wintry atmos
phere. At length I found my clothes
and scrambled into them, chattering
and blowing prodigiously in the opera¬
tion. No man—stil! less woman—
knows what haste he can develop in
his dressing operations until he has
had a beiow-zero temperature as a
pacemaker.
Finding matches I lighted my lamp
and sallied forth into the main room.
The boards beneath me created dis¬
mally as m.v weight came upon them;
a drift of snow several feet in length
and tile shape of a great fish had
formed across the room as a result of
a crack in the door; the stove was ice
cold; the water pails were frozen over;
the little clock on the Shelf had
stopped. My watch was of better met¬
tle and revealed the fact that it was
seven-thirty. We had slept well.
I made shavings from a poplar stick
in the wood box and soon had a fine
fire roaring. When once it was started
the great draft of the storm drew it
impetuously up the sheet-iron pipes,
and I was obliged to apply the dam¬
per. No more unhappy irony can be¬
fall the homesteader than to burn
down his shack In his attempts to
warm It.
"Good morning, Frank 1” said a voice
which set the pumps of my heart going
to jig music. I think Jean’s voice was
really her most wonderful quality; she
was enough of the artist to appreciate
and cultivate the fine manners of the
voice. It had the lilt of singing birds,
the limpidity of purling water, the soft¬
ness of roseleaves In the twilight, the
tinkling of silver bells at dawn, and if
I can think of any other figure It had
that, too, for of me mine. In those old love-he^
lowed days
“Good morning, Frank. No word of
Jack?”
“No word, Jean.”
“He is all right He is over at Four¬
teen, and not up yet, I'll wager. Now *
suppose you go into the men’s apart¬
ments and face the wall—that fire
looks most Inviting J”
I did as I was bidden, in part at
least while Jean dressed by the fire.
After a little she gave me the “All
clear!” and I swept out and seized
her in my arms. . . .It was a very
wonderful way to begin the day.
“There now,” she expostulated at
length, “let me get the porridge on.
That’s more to the purpose.”
“Porridge is poor business when
there’s loving to be done,” I argued.
“You won’t always think so,” sh»
replied as though with some strange
glimpse preparing of prophecy, breafcfast. and set 'In busily thole
about
operations she discovered that every¬
thing that could freeze had frozen;
we melted the butter until it ran over
the stove and then we gathered it up
and spread It on the toast. We could
not afford to be fastidious.
We ate and drank, and laughed and
were happy and cared not a tuppence
for all the storms that ever blew!
About midforenoon came a sudden
smash at the door, and Jack precipi¬
tated himself Into our presence. H 9
was masked in snow, but his first
glance was at me, and I knew by the
sudden drawing of his lips tiie relief
it was to see me safe and well.
“I was afraid for you, Frank," he
said; "afraid you’d try it"
“I did try it.” And then I told him
the story of my attempt
“We have a great deal to be thaaflf
ful for,” Jack said, soberly, when I
had finished. “A very great deal, in¬
deed.”
“Yes, more than you know,” I re¬
turned, Joyously, eager to spread the
good news. “Jean has consented to be
my wife."
Jack refused to be excited. “Con¬
gratulations, old boy,” he said, pressing
my hand, “but, really, that is hardly
a news item. Jean has been—well, on
the point ot consent tor a long, long
while.”
"Oh, Jack, that Isn’t fair t”
“Sorry, sister, perhaps it Isn’t quite.
But you two have been so beastly slow
over this business you’ve tied up the
whole progress of events, and now you
want me to be surprised about some¬
thing that’s long overdue.”
“Well, it’s settled now, anyway,”
said I, “and as soon as you and Mar¬
jorie can make up your minds we will
fix a date.”
“As soon as Marjorie and I can mak«^
up our minds minds 1" Jack made exclaimed. months “So^,
our were up ago.
We’ve been waiting, waiting. At last
we concluded that we really must
speed tilings up a little, so it was ar¬
ranged that Marjorie would send you
over here last night, and I would ac¬
cidentally miss you in the gully and go ,
over to Marjorie’s. Of course, we
didn’t know there was a storm comini.
It rather overdid things from a con¬
ventional point of view, but fortunate¬
ly Mrs. Grundy hasn’t moved out here
yet”
“Why, I never thought of such a
thing!” cried Jean, indignantly. “How
can you—?”
“Of course you didn’t, you old dear,”
said Jack, drawing her within his arm, I
"and, I'U bet a wedding present neither
did Frank. And listen, little woman,
you’re getting one of the best- little
chums»and one of the whitest men be¬
yond the Red river and the Rockies—
and beyond. And as for you, you old
son-of-a-gun,” punching me in the ribs,
"if there are two angels in the world
today one of them is Jeau Lane.”
Although tiie storm still raged dal
light now struggled through the wind-1
swept screen of snow, and there was
no great danger in making the short
trip from Twenty-two to Fourteen.
Jack confessed that Marjorie was un¬
easy for me so I went home very soon
after his arrivaL ^
Marjorie flew into my arms as I
opened the door. “I was so frightened,
Frank, so frightened!” she whispered,
In half sobs. “I didn’t know it was
going to be such a storm. I was al-(
most sure you’d come back and when
you didn't 1 couldn’t help wondering,
and every little while through the night
1 would waken and see you fighting in
the snow; fighting, and stumbling, and
falling.” She wrapped her arms about
me and pressed her cheek against ,1
face. “Oh Frank. Fruuk, it’s got |r t'
have you here.'” she murmured.
I bad never known Marjorie to be so
demonstrative. She came of solid old#
Eastern stock that carries its heart a’
long, long way in. 1 was not psy¬
chologist enough to realize that if ever
there, was to be at hue when Marjorie
would be very human she was now en¬
tering it.
“There, there,” I said, comforting
her as best 1 could. “It’s all over novj.
And listen—1 have great news. Jean,
and I are to be—”
“At last!” she interrupted. “Well 4
that shows what a little planning will
do. You dear old silly, did you sup¬
pose—”
“I know all about it—now. Jack
confessed. But your little joke nearly
cost me my life,’* and I went on to tell
of my battle with the storm, taking
care that it should lose nothing in the
telling. In this I hope I measured up
to the established standard of
typical Westerner.
Marjorie was penitent “I -aro m 0
sorry,” she said. “I had no idea that
might happen. Oh, Frank, wouldn’t It
have been dreadful?"
“It would, but St isn’t On the con¬
trary, it is worth it"
Spoof drove over one Sunday earl£
in December after an absence of three
weeks. We saw his oxen
trail for an hour or more before they
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