THE great fire left nothing in its trail but ruin and hunger. The farmers were, indeed, in sad circumstances. Want and misery were in reality glaring at the people with gaunt and hollow eyes. The spring sunshine and rain had clothed the landscape in brilliant green; the hot winds had changed all, as if by magic, into a world of dullest brown; while the great fire had spread over the prairie a sable robe of ruin. Nor had the fire-king been entirely cheated of the sacrifice of flesh and blood. The brown prairie had been turned into a vast graveyard where suffocated men, horses, cattle, wild animals, and flying things had, alike, been offered up to the insatiable greed of the flames. Side by side lay these half-burned carcasses and bones, telling where the victims had fallen, vanquished in their race for life.

Time, however, would strangely change this field of desolation. Other seasons would come, and here, where blackened embers lay scattered for miles in every direction, new hopes would blossom. Springing up from among these very bones, and enriched by them, would grow the johnny-jump-ups, the daisies, and the dandelions. The plum bushes that grow in straggling bunches along the sand-dunes would again blossom and yield their plenteous offerings of scarlet-red sand-plums. A new carpet of growing green, interspersed with a myriad of rainbow-tinted flowers, would cover these barren plains with a mantle of renewed life and beauty. This hope stimulated the people and robbed their defeat of many remorseful stings.

Major Buell Hampton came to the rescue. In his usual magnificent generosity, he announced through the Patriot that there would be ample assistance for the comfort of all. Arrangements were made for the farmers to drive their teams northward, along the old “Jones and Plummer” trail, to Dodge City, the nearest railroad point, and there load their wagons with provisions for man and beast. In a few days plenty once more blessed the impoverished people.

Major Hampton was ably seconded in his benevolence by John Horton, Captain Osborn, and others.

“I am of the opinion,” said Major Hampton, when talking to Hugh Stanton, “that in the crucible of suffering, God separates the dross from the gold. It is necessary to jar men into a realization of ‘man’s dependence upon his brother man.’.rdquo;

“Every condition that arises, Major,” replied Hugh, “brings to light a new phase of your character. You have donated thousands of dollars to these unfortunates, and you should be almost idolized by them for your rare generosity.”

“My dear Stanton, let me say to you that praise, even though deserved, is, after all, only flattery. I am not entitled to your complimentary words. To feed the hungry, visit the sick, and clothe the naked is a command from the Supreme Ruler. The only real happiness in the world is in making others happy.”

John Horton rode up the street while they were talking, and reported to Major Hampton that a hundred head of beeves would arrive that evening for distribution among the sufferers.

“Well, Stanton, my boy,” said the major, “I am going into the country this afternoon, but shall try to see you to-morrow.” With this he turned toward the Patriot office, leaving Hugh to marvel at this strange man whose liberality to the needy seemed limitless.

In the meantime Mrs. Horton had awakened to a realization that she had been unfairly influenced in many ways by the late Mrs. Osborn.

She now wondered why she had been so blinded. She was a woman of great nobility of heart and of excellent judgment in most matters, and she was beginning to acknowledge to herself that she had committed a great error in her foolish Anglomania ambitions. She seldom did things by halves. Discovering that Ethel was irrevocably in love with Doctor Redfield, she determined to make amends for the miserable daubs she had painted in the stage setting of an unsuccessful English comedy. She therefore wrote at once to Doctor Redfield, assuring him of her unqualified approval of his suit, and urging him to stop at the Grove, as their guest, as long as he remained in the Southwest. This urgent request was supplemented by the rugged and yet whole-souled invitation of the cattle king.

Accordingly, the doctor left Hugh Stanton’s rooms at the hotel for the hospitality of Horton’s Grove, where he might be with Ethel. Hugh was filled with a keen sense of loneliness when Jack drove away with his fiancie. Her tender eyes shone with a new light when in Jack Redfield’s presence. She coaxingly told Hugh that he must come over to the Grove every day, and, if he did not, they would surely send for him.

When they were gone, Hugh turned back to his room, marveling at the transformation in Ethel. Her cheeks glowed with the pink tinge of ruddy health and her lips were like well-ripened cherries, while the whole expression of her youthful face was one of contentment and of hope. “Love is a wonderful thing,” said he, as he stood by the window watching the carriage containing Jack and Ethel drive away toward the country. He sighed, muttered something to himself, and turned from the window.

“After all,” said he, aloud, “marriage is a mystery, the prelude an illusion decked with ribbons of flattery, the awakening an introduction to the real, where the happiness of each hangs upon the caprice of both; while life, at best, is only a straw blown about on the surface of chance, with the devil ever standing near, beckoning us on to a labyrinth of confusion and misery.” Then he thought of Ethel’s fair hand, which he had so recently held in his own, and there crept into his soul, as the fanning breath of springtime, a feeling of reverence, loyalty and respect.

The next morning, as Hugh was walking down the street, he met Marie Hampton. A rich color mounted her cheek at their meeting. “You are quite a stranger,” said she, smiling pleasantly. “We have not seen you at our home for more than a week, and papa says you have ceased calling at the Patriot office, altogether.”

“A friend has been visiting me,” replied Hugh, “and I have given him considerable of my time, but that’s over with now,” said he, with a sigh, “and I shall hope to see more of you and your father, too.”

“Oh, has he gone away so soon?” asked Marie.

“No,” replied Hugh, moodily, “but he does not need me any longer.”

“Indeed?” said Marie, and there was an interrogative accent in her voice.

“Yes,” replied Hugh, nervously. “Come, I will walk with you and tell you a romance.”

They turned down the street toward Major Hampton’s home, and, as they walked along, Hugh told Marie of Jack Redfield’s love affair.

“Oh, how romantic!” she exclaimed, when he had finished. “Just like a story in a novel. I am impatient to see Ethel and this hero of hers.”

They had reached Marie’s home, and she was standing on the veranda, leaning her pretty head, with its wealth of bronzed hair, against one of the supports. Her eyes were resting radiantly on Hugh’s face.

“I doubt not,” Hugh was saying, “that they are very happy, and I presume it is only a question of time until we shall lose Ethel.”

“Papa says he fears you will also go away now that the hot winds have destroyed the crops and the big fire has generally devastated the country.”

Hugh shrugged his shoulders. “The greater the pressure, the better the wine.” He laughed a little and continued, “The test has been a crucial one. Perhaps I will be compelled to go. When one is conquered, the surrender should be unconditional.”

“That might be true of a woman,” said Marie, “but a man should resist.”

“And why of a woman more than of a man?” inquired Hugh.

“A man has greater strength,” she replied. “A woman is all heart and sentiment, and, while her fortress is a strong one, yet she expects to be conquered, and once she surrenders, she loves no one more than her conqueror.”

Hugh thought for a moment and then said, “Yes, I presume that is the rule.”

“Not the rule, but the condition,” replied Marie.

“But there are rules that govern lives,” persisted Hugh. “Do you not think so?”

“Perhaps in a commercial sense, but not in love affairs,” said Marie, laughing. “Now what sort of a rule could possibly have governed Ethel and her lover?”

“Certainly a poor one,” replied Hugh.

“Are you quite sure, Mr. Stanton, that this Dr. Jack Redfield loves Ethel as a hero in a novel seems to love his fiancie?”

“The illusion seems to be perfect,” replied Hugh, smiling.

“Do you believe in love, Mr. Stanton?” asked Marie, demurely.

“Yes, I presume there is such a sentiment,” replied Hugh.

“And do you think,” Marie went on, “that true love will endure any sort of a test?”

“I do not know, I’m sure,” said Hugh.

“Well,” persisted Marie, “what is the test of a man’s love for a woman?”

“The test,” replied Hugh, “of a man’s love for a woman?” He looked afar across the valley as if meditatively weighing the question that has perplexed the sages of all centuries. Finally he said, “A man not infrequently lies with reckless prodigality to the woman he truly loves, while to those toward whom he entertains sentiments of indifference he will confess the truth without clothing it with sufficient covering to even hide its nakedness.”

“I do not believe in your definition at all,” said Marie, with heightened color, “and I look upon rules as the most worthless baggage with which a life can be encumbered. A principle may apply to all conditions, but a rule is narrow; while your idea of love’s test is horrid.”

Hugh smiled at her philosophy and looked at the blushing girl with increasing interest. “You are quite a reasoner, as well as a genius,” said he, “even if you do not agree with my ideas of the test of man’s love for woman. May I come tonight and hear you sing and play?”

“You may come,” she replied, “and I will play for you a simple little melody,—one I have recently learned. You persist in saying I am a genius; if so, I must be eccentric, and one of my whims is simplicity.”

“I like you all the better for your whims,” said Hugh, gallantly, and, as he lifted his hat and turned away, he noticed that the compliment had deepened the color in Marie’s face.

As he walked along the street, still thinking of his conversation with Marie, he met Bill Kinne-man, riding a bronco. Kinneman called out to him, “Look ‘e ‘ere, pardner, I thought you agreed not to browse on my range.”

“What’s the matter with you, Kinneman, anyway?” asked Hugh, angrily.

“Waal, I’ll jist tell you what’s a-chafin’ me, an’ makin’ me feel a heap careless,” replied the cowboy. “You want to keep away from Major Hampton’s an’ quit foolin’ ‘round Miss Marie, my wayfarin’ friend, or you’ll git into a whole lot o’ trouble that’ll result in yer nach’ally git-tin’ uncorked and spilled.”

“Oh, is that so?” replied Hugh, contemptuously.

“You bet yer life, it’s so,” replied Kinneman, “an’ speakin’ sort o’ quick and hostile-like, you’ve bin stealin’ my thunder, an’ now you may nach’ally expect to git a dose o’ my forked-tongued lightnin’.”

“You may do your worst,” said Hugh, angrily. “I shall call on Major Hampton and his daughter as often as I like, as long as it is agreeable to them. You are a contemptible whelp at best, and as far beneath Miss Hampton as hades is below heaven, and if she had the faintest suspicion that you aspired to her hand, she would be so incensed at your presumption that she would never speak to you again. Now go on about your business, if you have any, and never again dare speak to me.”

Hugh turned on his heel and walked briskly away toward the bank, while Bill Kinneman rode his pony into a side street, muttering dire vengeance.

As Hugh neared the bank he saw John B. Horton riding madly down the street. His fiery bronco seemed to have gotten beyond his control. It reared, pitched, plunged forward, kicked viciously, and pawed the earth. The cattle king sat in his saddle like a born equestrian, but it was evident that he was pretty well exhausted.

Presently the pony started swiftly forward into a mad, breakneck run. When directly in front of Captain Osborn’s bank, the mustang suddenly shied, reared into almost an upright position, and then, as its fore feet came down, it “bucked,” made a wicked plunge, and kicked high in the air. The onlookers, though accustomed to bucking broncos, were beginning to be alarmed. Another mad plunge, and still another. Suddenly the saddle-girth broke, and Mr. Horton was thrown violently from the pony, his head striking against the curb of the sidewalk. By a strange coincidence, the ugly red scar that Hugh had noticed at their first meeting was cut open by the fall.

Captain Osborn rushed from the bank, and, with the assistance of Hugh and others, the bleeding man was carried into the captain’s private room and a physician hastily summoned.

Before the physician could arrive, a report was circulating on the streets of Meade that John B. Horton, the cattle king, had been thrown from a bronco and killed.