AS the weeks wore into months, Hugh Stanton saw a great deal of the Hortons. The cattle king seemed drawn to Hugh by some strange attachment which he could not explain. Even Mrs. Horton began to feel a sense of security about Hugh’s presence at their home that she could not have believed possible a few months before. Perhaps she relied on Mrs. Osborn’s assurance that she would be responsible for Mr. Stanton’s non-interference with their plans for Ethel.

Hugh had been thrown much in Ethel’s society, and his admiration and platonic regard for the girl had strengthened at each succeeding meeting. He fancied that he noticed a shade of sadness on Ethel’s face, and once or twice he was sure that he discovered traces of tears. They frequently went horseback riding together down the valley, and he found her to be an expert equestrienne.

It was a bright autumnal day, and Hugh and Ethel were returning to the Horton home after a long ride. She had been telling him of Lake Geneva; and he confessed that, notwithstanding his long residence in Chicago, he had never visited that beautiful resort. Once Ethel was tempted to ask him if he were acquainted with Doctor Redfield, but her letter had never been answered, and she refrained from doing so. She had not given up hope, however; but lived on from day to day in the belief that, sooner or later, the man to whom she had completely given her heart would come and claim her.

On entering the house, Ethel uttered an exclamation of surprise, as she went forward to welcome a stranger whom her mother was entertaining. Then, turning, she introduced Dr. Lenox Avondale to Hugh. The Englishman bowed indifferently to Stanton, and turned again to Mrs. Horton to finish some remark he had been making. There was a supercilious air about the man which Hugh instinctively disliked.

As Hugh took his departure, Ethel followed him to the veranda and insisted that they must have their ride together the next afternoon. Hugh believed her solicitude to be an effort to make amends for the haughty indifference of the Englishman.

“Miss Ethel,” said he, “I surrender unconditionally. No, I’ll not say that—it is with this condition; if you are sure that you want me, let me know; but I fancy your time will be entirely taken up during the stay of your English friend.”

As Hugh rode thoughtfully homeward, he saw a carriage coming toward him. It was Mrs. Osborn driving over to the Grove. At her salutation he dismounted and stood beside the carriage.

“Did you meet Doctor Avondale?” she asked, with an air of triumph playing about her pretty face.

“I had that honor,” replied Hugh.

Then followed some light conversation, in which Mrs. Osborn tried to be most captivating in her quick repartee.

“Are you sure, quite sure, you do not want to ask me a single question?” she interrogated.

“Well, I should like to know how long the Englishman is going to remain?” said Hugh, hesitatingly.

Mrs. Osborn broke into a silvery laugh, as she replied, “What difference can it make to you? Your regard for Miss Ethel is only of a platonic nature, don’t you know?”

“That is very true,” replied Hugh, “I have not changed my mind a particle; nevertheless, a platonic regard may be strong enough to cause one to take a deep interest in one’s friends.”

“You are quite clever to put it that way,” said Mrs. Osborn. “I shall try to ascertain, and will let you know just how long Doctor Avondale expects to remain, although you are such a naughty boy I ought not to favor you a particle.”

“What have I done?” asked Hugh.

“Oh, you neglect your friends so,—unless, perchance, it is your platonic friend, Miss Ethel,” she said, looking archly at him. “I was telling the captain only the other day that we invited you at least a dozen times to our house for every one time you honored it with your presence.”

“One does not like to wear out one’s welcome,” replied Hugh, evasively, “however, I shall be delighted to call to-morrow evening if agreeable.”

“Very well,” said Mrs. Osborn. “No,” said she, after a moment’s hesitation, “come to dinner this evening. I think, perhaps, I shall entertain Doctor Avondale to-morrow evening.”

“Oh, very well,” replied Hugh, and with this arrangement he bade her good day.

When Hugh arrived at Captain Osborn’s that evening, he found the captain with his little son, Harry, on a shady grass-plot, which was screened from the street by twining honeysuckles.

“Hello, Hugh, my boy,” cried the captain, as he saw him coming through the gate, “come out here, and make yourself at home.”

“How do, Untile Hoo,” said Harry, as he advanced to shake hands with his father’s friend, “don’t ‘ou fink dis is a nice p’ace?” asked the little fellow, waving his small hand around the enclosed nook.

“Indeed, it is, Harry,” replied Hugh, “one of the most delightful places I ever saw.”

“Dis is where papa an’ I turns a tourtin’,” said he, innocently. “We’s failin’ more an’ more in love wiv each uv’er ever’ time we turns out here, is n’t we, papa?”

“That’s what we are, you little rogue,” laughed the captain, beaming tenderly at the child.

Soon after, Mrs. Osborn drove up, and they all went in to dinner. As the meal progressed, Hugh was satisfied that the relations between Mrs. Osborn and her husband had not materially improved.

“I presume,” remarked the captain, “that this distinguished surgeon, Dr. Lenox Avondale, will take up his quarters at the Grove, and stay indefinitely. It’s a great deal cheaper than stopping at a public hotel.”

“Captain,” said Mrs. Osborn, coldly, “your inference is very unbecoming. You may speak disrespectfully in a general way about the English people, if it pleases you, but I cannot allow thoughtless remarks about my own particular English friends to pass unnoticed.”

“I beg your pardon, Lucy, I thought Doctor Avondale was the particular friend of Mrs. Horton and Miss Ethel.”

“And why not mine also?” she inquired, rather testily.

“Oh, I did n’t know that,” said the captain.

“Well, that’s it, Captain; there is so much that you don’t know, and your remarks are so careless that you quite provoke me.”

“There’s one thing I do know,” said the captain, as usual taking refuge in his boy. “I have a young gentleman at my right, here, who is the worst little rascal in southwestern Kansas.”

“Oh, don’t tell on me, papa; don’t ‘ou tell!”

“What’s that, Harry?” inquired his mother, curiously.

“Oh, dat’s a se’tret ‘tween papa an’ me.”

The captain laughed heartily. “‘Ou see, mamma, I p’a’.d a big joke on papa an’ it turn out to be a joke on me; dat’s why I wants to teep it a se’tret.”

“Well, I’ll not tell, Harry; I’ll be true to you.”

“Dat’s wight, papa, I did n’t fink ‘ou’d tell.”

“Doctor Avondale will be a fellow lodger of yours at the hotel,” observed Mrs. Osborn, addressing Hugh.

“Indeed?” said Hugh, inquiringly.

“Yes, I have discussed the matter with him, and he has decided, much against the wishes of Mrs. Horton, that it would, perhaps, be more pleasant for him to stop in town.”

“Well, why did n’t you say so at once, Lucy?” asked the captain.

“Because I was kept so busy defending my friends against your unwarranted attacks.”

“Oh, come, my dear,” said the captain, “you know I would not offend any of your friends intentionally under any circumstances. You also know, I believe, that my greatest happiness is to see you happy.”

“Why, Captain,” laughed his wife, “this new rtle is quite becoming to you; it is, indeed. How charmed I am to hear you say such nice things, and, as a test of your sincerity, I shall ask you to be more careful of your remarks in the future.”

She then turned away indifferently, and told Hugh that Doctor Avondale would probably remain three or four weeks at Meade.

As Hugh walked down the street toward the hotel, after leaving the Osborns, he wondered what the next year would bring forth. He was conscious of an interest in Ethel Horton that he could not quite understand. He believed that he could far more easily analyze his feelings toward little Marie Hampton, with her rich contralto voice, than he could his friendship for the queenly Ethel. “My life,” mused Hugh, “is like a vast, leafy forest, tormented by strange winds. It abounds with sighs and laughter, songs and murmurings and half-spoken whisperings, while all is a labyrinth of mystery.”

In the meantime, Dr. Lenox Avondale had dined with the Hortons, and had succeeded in making himself quite agreeable. Ethel felt his searching eyes upon her, and they filled her with a certain dread—an uneasiness. She did not interpret his look as one of impudence—no, but, rather, the critical scrutiny in which a buyer of fine stock might indulge at a horse fair, especially if the proposed buyer were looking for blooded fillies with which to replenish his stables.

The coming of Lenox Avondale, his reception at their home, her mother’s special efforts to entertain him, a half-overheard conversation of Lucy Osborn with her mother, had all conspired to awaken Ethel to the seriousness of the situation. Her secret resentment was all the more keen because there was no open warfare, neither would there be. She was expected, simply, to drift into a net, from which escape would be impossible. Her troubles would have changed to the merest schoolgirl sport, if she were only fortified with even one word from Jack Redfield, but her letter was unanswered.

She was indeed glad when Avondale pleaded weariness, and started on his return to Meade soon after dinner. When he had gone, Ethel strolled down toward the lake, and paused at the little summer-house. She was no longer the freehearted and happy girl who once gamboled over the prairie, but had become as a bird that is caged, and its wild spirit broken. Her heart beat a dirge of regret. She was, indeed, an object of pity.

The intrigues of Lucy Osborn, seconded by the negative assistance of a well-meaning and yet a weak and influenced mother, had subjected her to grief and humiliation.

“Oh, Jack,” she sighed, half aloud, “Jack, why have you broken my heart? Why have you not come to me, and loved me? You taught me the lesson of life—how to love—and now it must be you have forgotten me; but the love—my love—is still as fragrant as a full-blown rose, and, like the rose stem, it has many thorns, but I cannot give up the rose because of the thorns on the stem; neither can I give up this great love, nor forget it, nor put it away from me. Yes, I will hold it close to my aching breast, and let the cruel thorns pierce my sorrowing heart.”

A brown thrush flew from the summer-house and alighted in front of her. It was the mate of the constant mother bird, who, during the summer, had warmed the little speckled eggs of anticipation into winged life; and Ethel knew it well. She had brought it crumbs for many a day. She loved it. Taking from a pocket of her apron a handful of crumbs, she motioned as if to toss them, and the thrush hopped nearer to her, down the path, for it was not afraid. “Now, look out,” she said:

“One’s for the money,

Two’s for the show,

Three’s to make ready,

And four’s to go.”

She tossed the crumbs to the bird, and it seemed to thank her with many a chirp. She called this thrush her little poem of the air.

“Oh, bright-winged thrush,” she said, with girlish superstition, “I beg you to tell of him who won my heart so long—so very long—ago. Is he true? Tell me, thrush, tell me, tell.”

The thrush winked his knowing eyes, and, turning his head sideways, seemed to consider the weighty question put to him. Then he chirped,—not in dirge-like tones, but in notes of hope.

“Oh,” said Ethel, “who knows, who knows?”

She sighed as she looked fondly at the bird. “How little, fair thrush of the woods, do you know of the human heart! How little you know of the intrigues of the wicked, wicked world! How little you know of hopes deferred and of the sorrow that kills! Your song is one of hope. You answer me with cheery chirps, but still I believe you not—I believe you not.”