A FEW days after the country had been devastated by the hot winds, Hugh met Major Hampton on the street.

“Come on,” said the major, “I am going over to the Patriot office, and I want to have a talk with you.”

“All right,” replied Hugh; “financially, I am ruined; and I now have more time on my hands than anything else.”

On reaching the major’s den at the Patriot office, he turned to Hugh and said, “I can distinctly see, Mr. Stanton, that there’s something on your mind. Perhaps you’d like to ask my advice. If so, you need not be backward.”

Hugh laughed good-naturedly, as he puffed a ring of cigar smoke toward the ceiling. “Well,” he replied, “bankruptcy stares us in the face. Our bank, in all probability, will have to close its doors. Is not that quite enough to have on one’s mind?”

“Quite enough,” replied the major, “but there is something else that is worrying you. Come, what is it?”

“I almost believe, Major, that you are a mind-reader,” replied Hugh.

“Oh, I am a student,” replied the major, “and it would be strange, indeed, if I had not made some progress in all my years of study.”

“Well, I will ask you a question,” said Hugh. “If something you coveted very much were within your grasp, and you should awaken to find that it really belonged to another—some one whom you believed unworthy of the prize—what would you do?”

The major lay back on the lounge, and, after deliberating fora moment, replied: “From a selfish standpoint, I would secure for myself that which I coveted; but from an altruistic standpoint, it would be mean, low, and contemptible to take an unfair advantage of one’s equals, and much worse to take advantage of one’s inferiors. Again, the prize coveted should not be made a football, to toss about for transitory pleasure. One becomes a social outcast when he loves himself better than he loves his neighbor.”

The major’s reply struck home, and Hugh was noticeably ill at ease. Presently he said, “Major, what is going to become of the Southwest? The crops are all burned up,—our bank securities are worthless. Financially, I am a ruined man.”

“Help the poor,” replied the major. “Personally I have laid something away that will help me to accomplish charitable purposes toward the ever increasing army of unfortunates. Next year the crops may be better. I believe it is in my power to put you in a way to retrieve some of your lost fortune, and at the same time enable you to benefit mankind.”

“In what way?” asked Hugh, eagerly.

The major hesitated for a few moments, and then said: “I do not feel at liberty to explain just now, but I will think it over for a day or two, and if I can be of service to you, Stanton, you will find me a true friend. My keenest pleasure is in befriending those in need of help, and wreathing the face of pain and sorrow with smiles of gladness.”

“Thank you, Major,” replied Hugh, “It’s very kind of you, I am sure, and I shall wait with impatience for any suggestions that you may have to offer.”

That evening Hugh called at the major’s house. He quite forgot his losses and the ruined condition of the country in the pleasant conversation with the major and his daughter. The music, which formed a feature of the evening, was concluded by Marie singing a selection from Tannhbuser.

As Hugh was getting ready to bid his host good night, the major said: “Stanton, I am exceedingly glad you came to-night; I feel ennobled,—feel that it is good to live and that my days have been lengthened. The true epicurean of rationalism teaches us that the good and bad in man are engaged in a constant combat, and even the bad can better enjoy occasional indulgence by permitting the good to rule most of the time.” It struck Hugh as being an odd remark for the major to make.

After bidding them good night, he walked hurriedly along the street toward the hotel in a thoughtful mood. When he reached his room, he sat down by the open window, determined to reach a decision in regard to Ethel Horton.

He had now been in Meade a little over a year. His inheritance of fifty thousand dollars from his father’s estate had been swept away by the hot winds, and the securities which he held, bearing a high rate of interest, were practically worthless. The cattlemen were the only people who had not suffered by the cancerous breath that had swept over the country.

Ethel had trusted him to decide a momentous question. If he decided one way, Ethel Horton would become his wife. A voice whispered to him from the night wind, “Do this, and you need not care for the fortune you have lost. Ethel is the only child and heiress to millions.”

“No,” shouted Hugh, vehemently, starting up as if combating with the tempter, “no, that is a contemptible, cowardly thought. It is true that to-day poverty with her sable robe envelops me, and that a fortune is mine if I will only reach out and take it—a fortune that will make me a Croesus, while a resigned and heart-broken woman is ready to lift up her fair white arms to me as her savior, if I—I, Hugh Stanton—am willing to place upon her lips the kiss of a Judas. Shall I do it?” Conscience pricked him to a decision, and he fairly shouted, “Never, never, so long as my soul is in partnership with God Almighty.” His clenched fist struck the table. His victory was complete.

Seating himself at his desk, he hastily wrote the following letter:

“My dear Jack:—About a year ago I called on you and said good-bye. Forgive me for not writing before. Jack, this letter must determine whether I ever again address you as a friend. I have met Ethel Horton, and have learned—God knows the price of the wisdom—that her heart is wholly yours. Why have you trampled upon it? If you are an honorable man, as I have ever believed you to be, answer her letter, or, better still, come to me at once. I regard her as one of the noblest girls in the wide, wide world. If the love which you whispered to her at Lake Geneva was not sincere, then I am no longer your friend, but shall ever remain your enemy.

“Awaiting an answer, I am

“Your friend,

“Hugh Stanton.”

He enclosed this letter in an envelope and addressed it to Jack Redfield. He then wrote the following:

“My dear Ethel:—Only God knows how earnestly I have deliberated and prayed over the question which you commissioned me to decide. Since I saw you last, my thoughts have been given to this one subject. I feel exalted to-night. My soul has arisen from the mists of doubt and uncertainty,—and, I hope, selfishness,—and the way seems clearer to me. My regard for you remains unchanged, but I will not insist on your becoming my wife. To do this would prove me cowardly, selfish, and unjust. To pursue the course I have marked out, will, I trust, demonstrate ere long,—not only that I am unselfish where you are concerned, but also that I am securing a greater happiness for you than you could possibly know if our lives were more closely linked together. Do not think that I have arrived at this conclusion hastily,—far from it. It has cost me much suffering and many heartaches. You spoke of a calamity,—be patient and wait; an avenue of escape, bordered with fairest flowers, awaits you.

“Affectionately your friend,

“Hugh,”

After this letter was written, sealed, and addressed to Ethel Horton, Hugh paced the room, weighing the justice of his conclusion. Yes, he believed he had acted honorably.

Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, he went out and posted his letter to Jack Redfield; then, mounting his horse, he galloped away across the prairie toward Horton’s Grove. As he neared the place, he met Mrs. Osborn’s turnout, and he noticed, as it passed him, that Lord Avondale accompanied her. Dismounting and hitching his horse, he walked along the winding path, and was fortunate in meeting one of the servants. After securing her promise that the letter would be delivered at once to Miss Ethel, he dropped a coin into her hand and, turning back, was soon riding homeward.

When Ethel had broken the seal and read Hugh’s letter, no tears came to her eyes, but, as she put it from her, a stony expression was on her face. “He has no use for the worm-eaten rose,” said she to herself, “that’s what his letter means. A girl’s artificiality is forced upon her in this cold, scheming world. I long to get away from it all. Oh, Hugh, my fancied tower of strength,—you, too, are crumbling. The environments are closing around me. I presume resistance is almost useless. Nothing will satisfy them but a human sacrifice on the altar of a questionable nobility, and a repetition of the old fable of the earthen and iron pots drifting down the stream together.”

Mrs. J. Bruce-Horton was looking out of her window and recognized Hugh Stanton as he came up the path. She surmised that he had brought some communication for Ethel, and she determined to make sure before retiring. She rapped at Ethel’s door, and, without further announcement, made her appearance in her daughter’s room.

“Why are n’t you in bed, Ethel?” she asked, stroking the girl’s heavy tresses affectionately. “I fear you are not getting sufficient sleep. You look pale, and there are dark circles under your eyes.”

Ethel was indeed far from the rosy-cheeked girl of a few months before. She seemed listless and indifferent, as her mother went on. She spoke, in an incidental way at first and then with feverish enthusiasm, of Lord Avondale, and told Ethel how madly in love with her he was.

“Mamma, mamma, please don’t!” cried Ethel, burying her face in her hands.

“Why, child, you must not take on so,” said her mother, drawing near and attempting to take her in her arms. “Come, Ethel, you must be sensible about this. You should have confidence in my judgment. It is for your good,—really it is.”

After a time, Ethel looked up at her mother. Her hot cheeks had dried the tears. Her voice sounded strangely harsh, as she said, “Very well, mamma, make yourself easy; I will do as you wish.” There was a sad smile of resignation on the face of the girl as she spoke. She permitted her mother to take her in her arms, and she listened to her expressions of gratitude.

Ethel had surrendered to the wishes of an ambitious mother, whose respect for titled aristocracy exceeded her admiration for independent American womanhood.

The next morning a thin, misty rain began falling. A prayer of thanksgiving was in the hearts of the people. The rain gradually increased and continued a steady downpour all that day and night, and all of the following day. The earth was saturated with refreshing moisture. Then the sun came out, wreathed in smiling gladness. The browned landscape took on a new life. The buffalo-grass, within a few days, was a carpet of living green. The cacti put forth new shoots and spines, and their buds opened into beautiful flowers, as fragrant as the Cape jasmine. The sunflowers lifted their drooping leaves, and bulbs of promise swelled in triumph under the caressing rays of the wooing sun.

No wonder hope sprang up anew in the hearts of the farmers. True their crops were gone,—the country devastated,—but here was nature smiling with promise. To them it was the rainbow of hope, and they began making ready for another seed-time.