DOCTOR AVONDALE was comfortably lodged at the Osborn House. His haughty indifference and condescending politeness had undergone a marked change. He sought to cultivate an acquaintance with the townspeople, and his efforts were generously rewarded, for very soon he was on friendly terms with the best people of the town. He persistently sought to identify himself with the Hortons. It became generally understood that he was Ethel’s accepted suitor. They frequently went driving or horseback riding together, and he was much in her society. Many of her acquaintances looked with displeasure upon the turn that affairs had taken. Before the advent of the doctor, they had allowed themselves to believe that the destinies of Ethel Horton and Hugh Stanton were one! Prejudice against the Englishman, however, gave way before his forced geniality. He was certainly assuming a new rtle. He exhibited marked consideration toward every one, and confined himself to inquiring and learning, rather than to parading his own personal knowledge and experience. His pride and sense of superiority exhibited themselves, however, when he discussed medicine and surgery. In one of his trunks he carried leather cases containing a complete outfit of the finest surgical instruments manufactured. The local physicians, with one accord, acknowledged that Dr. Lenox Avondale was certainly a great surgeon. Medical publications mentioned delicate surgical cases in which this Englishman had successfully operated, and it was not long until he had quite a reputation in the frontier town.

He was a frequent guest of Mrs. Osborn, and, as the weeks went on, whisperings and knowing looks began to be exchanged among the people. Captain Osborn appeared to grow more silent as Doctor Avondale’s attentions to his wife increased. He applied himself closely to his banking affaire during business hours, and every morning and every evening he gave himself up to the companionship of his boy.

One day in speaking of his son to Hugh, he said, “That little fellow was born to be great. He daily gives evidence of his wonderful innate scope of mind. When he grows up he will plan what other men dare not do, and he will execute what other men dare not even plan.”

“He is a remarkable boy,” Hugh replied, and mentally concluded the boy’s greatness would be inherited from his father.

“He may have vices as dazzling as his virtues,” continued his father, “and, doubtless, far more picturesque; but if it should be so, I shall forgive him, for truly great characters are seldom found without some thread of weakness. The weakness, however, may be overcome by gentleness and good advice—never by harshness.” They were seated in Captain Osborn’s private office at the bank during this conversation.

“I dare say he will be a great comfort to you when he reaches manhood’s years,” replied Hugh.

“He is now,” said the father, “and I tremble sometimes at the thought of his ever growing away from me.” Somehow, the old captain’s voice always became husky when he spoke of his boy, and Hugh determined to change the subject of conversation.

“By the way, Captain,” said he, “I called on Major Hampton last evening, and was delightfully entertained.”

“How does it come that you do not call at the Hortons’ any more?” asked the captain, turning around in his chair and facing Hugh.

Hugh reddened a little. “Oh, I fancy they are kept busy entertaining Doctor Avondale,” replied Hugh.

“Lord Avondale,” corrected the captain. “My wife tells me that he received a cablegram, forwarded by mail from Dodge City, advising him of his brother’s death, and thus the doctor succeeds to the family titles and estates. Better be careful, Hugh,” he went on, jestingly, “or you will let this English lord carry away—not only an heiress, but one of the loveliest girls in the world. I have never known any one who could even play with Cupid without receiving a scratch on the heart—or inflicting one.”

“I hardly believe, Captain,” Hugh replied, slowly, “that we have much to do with the shaping of our own destinies, for we are but barks on an open sea, tossed and driven about by every wind of chance. The harbor that we expect to make is seldom reached. I am but little acquainted with love’s tender passion. I hardly know that I should recognize it, if it were to come to me. Miss Horton’s wishes and preference must be considered above all else.”

“Ah, Hugh,” said the captain, gravely, “she is too sensible a girl not to prefer a man like you to a ‘fungus of nobility,’ such as Lord Avondale. My advice to you, my boy, is to go in and win. The sooner the question is settled, and this Englishman takes his departure, the better. There are two duties which you owe in this affair. One, of simple justice to yourself, if you care for the girl, and I believe you do; the other, protection to her. The environments that are closing around Ethel Horton, and the influences that are being brought to bear to crowd her into a marriage with this fortune-hunter, are damnable—yes, sir, damnable!” The captain fairly shouted, as he made this last remark, while his usually calm face flushed with excitement and anger.

“Why, Captain,” exclaimed Hugh, “you cannot mean that Miss Ethel is being unduly influenced in this affair—that she is not acting of her own free will.”

“That is exactly what I mean,” replied the captain, “and if you were not as blind as a bat, you would have seen it long ago.”

“Yes,” replied Hugh, “but she was betrothed to Lord Avondale before I met her. You remember what Mrs. Osborn said?”

The captain was about to reply, but changed his mind, and turned to his desk. Presently he said, in a subdued voice: “Hugh, in great confidence I will say that I believe Mrs. Osborn was mistaken. They are not betrothed even yet, but soon will be unless you step to the front, like a man, and save the girl from the inevitable fate that otherwise awaits her.”

That evening Hugh sat thoughtfully at his window. He had told Ethel Horton that he would come to her if she sent for him, but he had received no word. The weeks that had intervened since he had seen her last seemed like as many months, or even years; and, yet, his interest was only one of solicitude, he told himself, rather than one of love. He was half inclined to ride over to the Hortons, in the old, informal way. He left the hotel with this intention, but changed his mind before he had walked very far, and, turning down a side street, he sauntered aimlessly along. Presently Mrs. Osborn’s carriage whirled past him. He saw that Lord Avondale was with her. They were so much interested in conversation that they did not see him. The road that they were following led away into the country, in an opposite direction from Horton’s Grove. Hugh paused, and considered whether he had not better return to the hotel, and order his horse, and gallop out to the Grove. In his indecision he walked on down the street, toward Major Hampton’s house.

As he neared the house, he heard Marie singing. There was a wild, pleading pathos in her voice, and a passionate earnestness, often sinking into a dreamy melody, so low and plaintive that Hugh almost held his breath for fear he might lose a single syllable of her words. She was singing a love song, with music even sweeter than the sentiment:

“By waters deep, in my lonely dreaming,

Come visions fair of a fancied seeming,

While other nights are wafted back to me;

Nights so fleeting, when our hearts were beating

With tender love and sweetest rhapsody.

On ebbing waters of languid river,

Where the moonbeams play and lances quiver,

Reflecting stars, from bending arch of blue,

I watch them glisten, and wait and listen

To the night bird’s song, while I dream of you.

The mist clouds rise, then fall apart,

Yet still I dream of you, sweetheart.”

When the music of the song had died away, Hugh walked meditatively along the graveled walk toward the house, and up the broad steps to the veranda. Marie answered the bell.

“Why, how do you do, Mr. Stanton?” said she, extending her hand in greeting. She led him into the major’s library, and invited him to be seated. “I am glad you’ve called,” she said, “for I am so lonely. I fear you will be disappointed, however, for papa is not at home.”

“The major not at home?” repeated Hugh, with surprise in his voice.

“No,” replied the girl, the light in her face fading. Hugh saw her sudden change of expression, and he felt that he had been rather uncomplimentary.

“In that event,” said he, by way of atonement, “I shall have the still greater pleasure of a visit with you.”

“Me?” she exclaimed, while the light rekindled in her face. “I am not nearly so clever as Ethel.”

“You underestimate yourself,” replied Hugh, gallantly.

“Ethel says you do not come to see them any more. Are you afraid of the Englishman?” There was a suppressed merriment in the girl’s voice as she asked this question.

“No,” replied Hugh, “I am not afraid of him, but I dislike him very much.”

“You are very frank,” said Marie, laughingly. “As Ethel is my dearest friend, I will tell you something—she does n’t like him either. There, is n’t that good news?”

“I have not seen as much of you as I have of Miss Ethel, but it is my misfortune.”

“Yes,” said Hugh, reflectively, “but tell me, do not girls sometimes marry men whom they very much dislike?”

“I don’t believe so,” replied Marie, with girlish frankness, as she looked at Hugh with her innocent blue eyes. “I wouldn’t, I’m quite sure.”

“Oh, would n’t you?” quizzed Hugh, jestingly. “That is because you are a genius, and gifted people may do as they like.”

“You must not speak that way,” said the girl, chidingly. “It is not candid, and I want to believe everything you say.” There was a message unconsciously sent from Marie’s eyes as she spoke.

“Perhaps I was partially jesting,” said Hugh.

“Do you know why I told you about Ethel?” asked Marie, later in the evening, when Hugh was preparing to go.

“No, why did you?”

“Because,” she stammered, while a blush tinged her face, “because, Mr. Stanton, I want to make you happy.”

As Hugh went down the path, wondering at Marie’s words and at the mystery of women, he met Bill Kinneman. The cowboy’s face wore a foreboding scowl.

“Hello, pardner,” said he. Hugh responded cordially.

“Look’e ‘ere,” said the cowboy, “you highfalutin fellers better keep away from this ‘ere part of the range when the major ain’t home. I’m liable to spread you ‘round profuse-like, an’ sort o’ decorate the landscape with yer nachalness.”

“I learned that he was away from home after I called,” replied Hugh, rather stiffly. “Where I choose to go, however, is nothing to you.” Saying this, he turned down the street, leaving Bill Kinneman muttering in suppressed anger.