ALMOST a month had passed since Lord Avondale’s departure, and yet Hugh had not visited the Grove. He thought a great deal about Ethel, and he was conscious of a sense of relief now that the Englishman was gone.

One evening, about this time, he determined to pay the Hortons a visit. His reception was most cordial, and he fancied that there was more than usual of the old-time animation in Ethel’s eyes. An opportunity came during the evening, when they were alone, but he did not improve it as he had intended. He did not declare his love in words, though he felt confident that Ethel read his heart in his flushed face. Thus he procrastinated, day after day, until the weeks hastened into months, and the springtime of the year had come again.

During this time he saw much of the Hortons. The bond of friendship between the cattle king and himself had materially strengthened. Mr. Horton frequently warned him of the collapse, which he believed to be inevitable, of the hopes of all engaged in or dependent upon agricultural pursuits in Southwestern Kansas. At such times Hugh would listen patiently until the cattleman had finished, and then he would adroitly change the subject.

Both Major Hampton and Captain Osborn assured him that, while John Horton was doubtless perfectly sincere, yet the abundant yield of crops during the preceding years, and the entire absence of the hot winds, was proof, irrefragable, that the cattleman’s theory was wrong. They also believed that John Horton was sadly mistaken regarding the cattle thieves, who still continued their untiring and fearless raids. The claim of the cattlemen was that a coterie of farmers had banded themselves together for the profitable and yet dangerous business of cattle-stealing. John Horton was the heaviest loser, because his herds were so extensive. Captain Osborn’s views coincided with those expressed in the Patriot,—that the thieves were a band of cowboys acting under the direction of some able leader. Both these theories were freely discussed, while the cattle-stealing continued without interruption, and not the slightest clue was obtainable as to who did the lawless work.

The thieves knew, all too well, the punishment awaiting them if they should ever be captured, and its severity caused them to exercise the greatest caution.

There is an unwritten code on the frontier that a man may engage in a quarrel, and shoot and kill his adversary, provided both parties are armed and no unfair advantage is taken. If one has a number of such quarrels and each time “kills his man,” he then becomes a most formidable candidate for sheriff in his county. On the other hand, if two men quarrel and one comes upon the other stealthily and, without warning, shoots him in the back, the act is construed by this unwritten code of the West as being a cowardly murder. The assassin is usually taken to some “Dead Man’s Hollow” and shot to death. There is hardly a community on the frontier but has its “Dead Man’s Hollow,” where the “law” is administered at the hands of the vigilantes.

While this code prevents outside interference in a so-called “fair fight,” even though death may result to one of the parties, yet, if a cattle thief is caught, he must, without exception, pay the penalty with his life. Indeed, a thief is looked upon with less commiseration, if possible, than a cowardly murderer.

In the meantime, the winter months were gone, and spring was paying another visit to sunny Kansas. The boundless brown prairie was once more changed to a world of brightest green, and, far and wide, over the landscape were myriads of simple dandelions and modest daisies that danced to the wind like a vast constellation of twinkling stars.

The meadow-lark and the brown thrush had again returned to their summer home to herald the approach of another mating-time, but still Hugh Stanton had not declared his love to Ethel Horton, nor had Lord Avondale returned to pursue his wooing of the American heiress.

Hugh Stanton fancied that he detected a shadow of sorrow in the girl’s face, and in her voice; and a fear arose in his heart. Was she grieving because of Lord Avondale’s absence? His unselfish regard for Ethel was so keen that it caused him much pain. Over and over he assured himself that he would willingly surrender his own slight claim if in doing so he might add to her happiness.

One afternoon Mrs. J. Bruce-Horton came up from the Grove to see Mrs. Osborn. Even a casual observer could have told that the stately wife of the cattle king was unusually agitated. She mounted the Osborn steps and rang the bell in a nervous manner.

Soon after, these two friends were seated in Mrs. Osborn’s private room, engaged in earnest conversation.

“What shall I do, Lucy? What can I do? What ought I to do under the circumstances?”

“My dear Mrs. Horton,” replied her friend, suavely, “do not agitate yourself. It is the easiest thing in the world, I assure you, to arrange this seemingly unfortunate affair.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Lucy, whether it is easy or not. No one knows the half a mother endures with a marriageable daughter to look after.”

“Oh, fie!” Mrs. Osborn laughed, as she rang for her maid. The door opened, and, turning to the girl, she ordered a small bottle of Tokay, which was soon set before them. “Now, my dear, drink a glass of wine. It will strengthen your nerves.”

“You see, Lucy,” said Mrs. Horton, as she sipped her wine nervously, “this is the third letter Doctor Redfield has written. He seems so persistent.”

“You have it with you?” asked Mrs Osborn, as if she were asserting a fact.

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Horton, as she took the letter from her bag and handed it to Mrs. Osborn, “I want you to put this with the others. Oh, dear! I feel so worked up over this affair; and to think of Lord Avondale’s misfortune! How long do you suppose it will be before he can again travel?”

Mrs. Osborn carefully scrutinized the handwriting on the letter. A diplomatic expression came over her beautiful face. “Yes, it is Doctor Redfield’s writing,” she affirmed, half to herself. “Oh, how long, did you ask, before Lenox dare travel? Perhaps a month; his physician tells me he has had a narrow escape. His broken arm—the result of his hunting trip in the mountains—was the least of his sufferings, poor fellow. A fever set in, he writes me, and for a while he was quite delirious. He will be here as soon as he can safely travel,—within a month, I am quite sure.”

“I shall be so glad when he returns,” sighed Mrs. Horton. “Ethel seems much more reconciled of late.”

“Indeed?” replied Mrs. Osborn.

“Oh, yes,” continued Mrs. Horton. “I was urging the advantage of a marriage with Lord Avondale the other day, and she replied, in a most indifferent manner, ‘Very well, mamma, I have ceased to care one way or the other, if it pleases you, I presume it ought to be acceptable to me.’ She then said something about being tired of life, and broke down in tears. Of course I consoled her as only a mother can.”

“Subdued at last!” cried Mrs. Osborn, triumphantly. “We may now hope to see merry old England again. Away!” she went on, exultingly, “away with American stupidity! We have outwitted her blond-mustached ‘brain-worker.’.rdquo; Mrs. Horton seemed to catch the spirit of her friend’s confidence. “Yes,” she ejaculated, “see England and our many friends; and, oh, to think how proud I am, Lucy, that my daughter is to be Lady Avondale. Why, it is quite enough to make the heart of any mother throb with ecstasy.”

“Indeed it is,” replied the designing Mrs. Osborn, “and you are entitled to so much credit for the clever ways in which you have managed it.”

“No, Lucy, you are deserving of the praise in this affair far more than myself,” replied Mrs. Horton. “Indeed, I could not have gotten on at all without you.”

“I certainly have done my utmost to serve you,” said Mrs. Osborn, in a sycophantic tone. “I feel sure you will always be grateful—and Ethel, too, won’t she?”

“Indeed, we shall,” replied Mrs. Horton, unhesitatingly.

“And I shall always be a welcome guest at Ethel’s English home?” Mrs. Osborn went on.

“Always!” replied Mrs. Horton. “Of course you will. Why ask such a question?”

“Oh, I know I shall be, I assure you,” she replied, demurely, “but then I wanted to hear you say so, don’t you know? Now there is only one serious phase in our program—Doctor Redfield.” She still held his letter addressed to Ethel.

“What would you advise, Lucy? You are so clever, and know so much better than I what is best to be done.”

“My dear Mrs. Horton, will you be guided by what I say, entirely?” She was standing near an elegantly carved escritoire as she spoke.

“Entirely, Lucy, I will do as you say,” replied Mrs. Horton. Quick as a flash Mrs. Osborn caught up an ivory paper-knife and tore away the envelope.

“Oh, Lucy!” cried Mrs. Horton, excitedly. “Don’t! don’t—I feel so guilty.”

“My dear, there is no turning back,” replied the cool and calculating Mrs. Osborn. “A title for Ethel is at stake. We must burn every bridge behind us.” Then, glancing at the letter, she read aloud:

“My own dear Ethel:—I lift up my voice for the third time, and call to you. Will you not answer? I am as one in a wilderness of doubt and sorrow. My heart tells me that you have not forgotten your promise—a promise that has stimulated me with sweetest hope all these weary months of waiting. One word, Ethel,—only one word; even if it is to say that you have forgotten me. With my heart’s tenderest love, I am all your own,

“Affectionately,

“Jack.”

“His devotion is quite amusing,” laughed Mrs. Osborn, as she seated herself before her escritoire and began writing. Presently, turning to Mrs. Horton, she said: “Here is your reply:”

“Dr. Jack Redfield,

“Sir:—My daughter has referred your several rather amusing and absurd letters to me for reply, and desires me to say that your communications annoy her very much. As she is already betrothed to Lord Avondale, and will be married in a short time, you certainly cannot, if you possess any gentlemanly breeding, wish to intrude further upon her your unreciprocated attentions.

“Respectfully.”

“Oh, Lucy,” cried Mrs. Horton, half-hysterically, “I cannot sign such a letter; I cannot indeed. Let it go unanswered.”

“Just as you say,” she replied, while a tigerish look of hatred and disdain arose to her usually pretty face. “Perhaps,” she went on, in a low purring voice that required an effort to modulate, “it will be as well to dismiss all thought of Doctor Redfield. I am quite sure we shall never hear of him again.”

Soon after, Mrs. Horton took her leave and, as she drove slowly homeward, she was glad that she had not signed that awful letter. She sighed a little, as if a weight rested on her conscience. “I am truly glad,” she said to herself, “that Lord Avondale will soon be with us.”

Mrs. Osborn was provoked at her friend’s lack of courage in grappling with and crushing all possible danger. After the departure of Mrs. Horton, she read Jack Redfield’s letter again. Then she read the reply which she had prepared for Mrs. Horton to sign. “This letter ought to be sent,” she observed, “or I am no general.” Dipping her pen in the ink, she addressed an envelope to Dr. Jack Redfield, then—turning to the letter—she paused a moment. Her courage failed her, and she laid down the pen. Unlocking a small drawer of her escritoire, she took out a bundle of letters, and, selecting the topmost one, commenced reading. As she read one after another, a passionate light animated her beautiful face and eyes. “Lenox, dear Lenox!” she murmured. “Yes, I will do it.”

Taking up the pen, she hastily signed the name of Mrs. J. Bruce-Horton to the letter, then carefully enclosing it in the envelope, she went quickly out and posted it.

Thus, at the expense of conscience, she made an instalment payment on a title for Ethel Horton.