A week,—another long week,—went by at Minneconjou, and Major Dwight at last was declared out of danger, though a badly shattered man. Mrs. Dwight, who should have shown corresponding improvement, seemed, however, not so well. Just in proportion as the major mended, his wife appeared to fail. Both doctors persisted in the belief that her case was one of nerves entirely. There was nothing organically wrong. She had been under a great strain, of course, and her husband, in his lucid moments, as well as in those of delirium, had shown strong antipathy to her presence in the sick room. They had persuaded her, without much difficulty, that it were better she kept away, and though pathetically, properly grieved, she obeyed. Something, however, was preying upon her—something she could not and would not confide to Mrs. Stone and other sympathetic would-be consolers. "Madame was distressed at ill news from her parents," FÉlicie had gone so far as to admit, but the ill news did not seem to refer to illness, for there had been frequent letters addressed in Farrell's sprawling fist, or the seÑora's precise chirography, and of late these had begun to be supplemented by telegrams.

In all this fortnight of alternating hope and anxiety Mrs. Ray had, with proper inquiries, called but twice. She could do no less. She would do no more. Mrs. Dwight occasionally appeared for an afternoon drive now, but always with FÉlicie by her side in the phaeton—never, now that her husband's guest and wits were gone, with a man. Other companionship might have been better for her, it was generally suggested, but she seemed to shrink from the conversation and, possibly, the interrogations of those of her own sex and social caste.

Great was the surprise, therefore, when a polite and perfumed note came to the Rays for Miss Priscilla Sanford, and would Miss Sanford do Mrs. Dwight the great kindness to drive with her that day? Priscilla, who knew not why, and who would gladly have avoided her, ordinarily, was now doing universal penance according to her lights, and would have gone driving with a Jezebel. Priscilla accepted, and FÉlicie, for the first time, was left at home.

Sandy Ray's health had been suffering, and Stone saw it, and of his own motion came over and said he considered it necessary that Mr. Ray should take exercise. Walking being painful, the colonel said ride, and, despite his arrest, riding anywhere within five miles' limit of the flagstaff. Sandy thanked him, but really tried to sulk and stay home, until the mother's gentle appeal prevailed and he began as the colonel had suggested. There were men who thought the general would "row" Stone for such indulgence to a man under serious charges, but Stone said he knew his business—and the general. He would neither argue nor defend his position, but he would like to bet two to one the general would approve. It was rumored the general himself thought of running out to Minneconjou and perhaps away to Wister and looking into matters along the lower line, having but recently returned from a look along the upper. The court had not yet been ordered. It was believed that the charges might still be withdrawn, so difficult was it to believe Sandy Ray capable of such a crime. But Ray insisted on trial, said he desired the most rigid investigation, and could never be content without. It was a most unsatisfactory situation, so far as he was concerned, and, with no duty to perform, no drill to stir his blood, nothing to do but try to comfort mother, reassure Maidie, who was writing every day or two, watch for the coming of the mail from Manila and the detail for his court, Sandy Ray was growing morbid.

He was gone and loping up the valley when the phaeton with pale-faced, languid Mrs. Dwight stopped at the door for Miss Sanford. Ray did not wish to see her. He had not seen her to speak to since the night before Dwight's breakdown, as that episode by common consent was now referred to. He had altered his manner toward Priscilla, though resentment still rankled, because of her almost dependent position under their roof. Had Priscilla owned enough money to take her back to the seaboard States, and had then remained, Sandy, perhaps, would have found forgiveness beyond him. Even now he raged at heart when he thought of her willful exaggeration as to the Canteen, her utter misrepresentation of facts—especially as to his father. Again and again he owned to his mother he felt like shaking Priscilla whenever he looked at little Jim, who so often now became his companion on these daily rides. Once or twice, when the patient was sleeping soundly, the doctors had taken the lad to his bedside, but the meeting between them was yet to come. Dwight was still too weak for experiments, and how he would bear it all when stronger was a matter of grave conjecture.

But on this particular day when the phaeton came for Priscilla, little Jim had again been trouting with Sergeant French and, as luck would have it, came dancing in with his basket of prizes to show Aunt Marion just as Priscilla descended from her room, dressed for the drive. Three weeks agone Priscilla would have reproved his entering without first washing his hands and smoothing his hair. To-day she bent and hurriedly kissed his flushed and happy face, and he looked up astonished. They had never let him know—they could not bear to speak of—Priscilla's share in the events of that tragic morning, and when in her downright honesty Priscilla would have sought and told him, Aunt Marion forbade. The boy who formerly shrank from was now growing to like her. She read to him, helped him in the daily lessons, Aunt Marion deeming it wise he should study even though this was vacation time; but never before had he known Priscilla to tender a caress. Mrs. Ray watched them curiously as together they left the room to see his catch properly stored in the icebox. Presently, hand in hand, they returned through the hall and went forth upon the veranda just as the phaeton suddenly drew up at the gate, and Priscilla felt the little hand withdrawing. He did not know mamma was coming. He went unwillingly, but obedient, to receive her effusive words of greeting, and to hear, unresponsive, that he, dear child, was looking so much better since dear Mrs. Ray had taken charge of him in all these dreadful days. But she did not ask him to drive with them, nor did he wish to go, for she had need to speak with Priscilla, and Jimmy would have been in the way.

It seems that matters had come to such a pass that Mrs. Dwight felt that she must have advice, and, oh, how her heart yearned for a friend! Many of the ladies had been kind, yes, very kind, Mrs. Stone especially; and others, even Mrs. Ray, who she felt, she feared, she knew, did not like or trust her, though she had so longed to win Mrs. Ray's friendship. But even Mrs. Stone and Mrs. Ray could not be to her now what she so needed—a real friend and adviser, a confidant, in fact, and these ladies were, though they did not look it, of an age sufficient to be her mother. What she craved was one nearer herself in years (Miss Sanford was certainly ten years older and not easily flattered), for now a time had come, said Mrs. Dwight, when there might be conflict between the duty she owed her husband and—and——Priscilla gasped and bridled and began to bristle all over with premonition of what might be coming, then breathed a sudden sigh of relief, yet of disappointment, as Mrs. Dwight concluded with "the deference due her parents." In their letters both her father and her mother had been appealing to her to appeal to her husband to come further to their financial aid; that Major Farrell had relied upon the backing of his son-in-law in certain enterprises; that he was now in desperate straits, and—and finally they had gone so far as to threaten—threaten her, their daughter, with untold calamity if she did not instantly assure them that material aid would speedily be forthcoming. She had written, telling them of her husband's perilous plight, of the possibly fatal illness, of the impossibility of anything being done until his recovery, and their telegrams in acknowledgment were imperative. She felt that she must bring her burden of trouble and ask Miss Sanford,—of whose charity and gentleness the garrison never tired of telling by the hour,—for Miss Sanford must feel and know that since the day he so raged against his own son, he—he had even seemed to turn against her, his devoted and dutiful wife.

And now when the doctors said he was almost well enough to be approached on matters of urgent business, she dared not. She had lost, perhaps, her influence. "Then what could I possibly do?" asked Priscilla bluntly, and then came the explanation. The woman whom he most honored, respected, believed in, the woman who had been the devoted friend of her,—that was gone, with, alas, his heart buried by her side,—that woman, Mrs. Ray, if she would but speak with him, plead with him for her, his fond, but, ah, so cruelly misjudged wife, whose heart was failing her now, and at a time when for his sake as well as hers she needed all her strength. If Mrs. Ray could but see her way to do this, ah, with what gratitude and devotion would she, Inez, ever think of her—and all Minneconjou knew Mrs. Ray's love for her noble niece. Everyone said that if Miss Sanford but willed a thing and urged it upon her aunt it was a thing accomplished. Out of the goodness of her heart would not Miss Sanford strive for her, a heart-crushed, well-nigh hopeless wife, upon whom there had but recently dawned the knowledge that, that—could not Miss Sanford imagine?

And in the midst of the gush of tears with which she closed came sudden distraction. They had been trundling easily, aimlessly over the smooth, hard prairie road, the well-trained, well-matched ponies ambling steadily along. They had given the cavalry herds and herd guards a wide berth, and the townward route, for Mrs. Dwight shunned, she said, the sight of almost any face but the sweet and sympathetic one beside her. They had turned southward, after rounding Castle Butte, a bold, jagged upheaval among the nearest foothills, and were winding slowly down this narrow and crooked ravine toward the broad Minneconjou bottom, when, as the ponies reached a fairly level bit of road, and were swiftly turning a point of bluff, they suddenly and violently shied to the right, almost upsetting the dainty vehicle, and nearly pitching its helpless freight headlong into the road. Then with the bits in their teeth, away they tore, full gallop down the next incline, the phaeton bounding after them, and so, mercifully as it happened, out upon the broad level of the valley, with the Minneconjou and its fringing line of cottonwoods barely five hundred yards across the bench. The pygmy tiger had been left at home; his ears would have been too active, and Mrs. Dwight, though accustomed to driving her usually gentle and tractable team, was utterly helpless now. She hung on desperately to the reins. But this was a new and delirious experience for the merry little scamps in harness. They were headed for home. There was a deep bend of the stream and a ford through the shallows, and an abrupt dip of four feet from the bench level, and the words of their fair, frail charioteer were stimulating rather than soothing, so away they went, and it was high time for Miss Sanford, if she wished to save their necks, to throw convention and etiquette to the wind, to take personal control—and the reins.

No one ever doubted Priscilla's nerve, yet here sat Priscilla hanging on to the side-rail with both hands and staring backward, her head twisted half round, with all her wondering, startled eyes, for the objects that had stampeded the ponies were a brace of frowsy, blanketed Minneconjou braves, squatted on the bunch grass in the shade of the bluffs at the side of the road, in close conference with two men in khaki and campaign hats, one of them, though instantly the brim was jerked down over his eyes, she knew to be Blenke,—Blenke whose woe-begone, remorseful letters she had duly filed and docketed, but who, he declared, was too shame-stricken to show his face to her of all the world. What on earth was Blenke doing there in that out-of-the-way nook, and in confab with Indians? They were hidden from view by a wave of prairie almost as suddenly as they had been whirled into sight, and then Priscilla had to give her aid and attention to Mrs. Dwight, who was swaying in her seat. She grasped the reins with her strong, wiry hands, but the little devils were within an hundred yards of the brink and reckless of everything but the mad exhilaration of a runaway. She heard from somewhere a shout, "Pull your left rein hard!" and with both hands she tugged with sudden and startling result. The ponies almost instantly veered to the left; the light vehicle tipped slightly to the right, and with that Inez went toppling headforemost over the low, leathern mud guard, and Priscilla was alone. Still clinging to that left rein, she swung her discomfited steeds in broad, big circle, narrowly scraping yet safely missing the edge, and so, gradually, they found themselves galloping out once more over the prairie and away from the homeward road and back toward that narrow ravine whence two Indians were now lashing their finally captured ponies southward across the valley; and then, still circling, the pygmies discovering that they were heading westward once more and farther from home, their enthusiasm by degrees, therefore, became beautifully less. They slowed gradually down to a lunging canter, then to a shame-faced trot, and finally, with Priscilla in complete control of both reins, her own head and theirs, they were brought at a decorous gait back to the road and the point where their mistress had quit them—and the lady had disappeared.

Guiding them carefully down the short declivity to the water's edge, Priscilla came upon a not unlooked-for explanation. Sandy's horse had disappeared. His owner was kneeling at the edge of the rippling waters, bending over a lovely, prostrate form, alternately sprinkling and fanning the dusty, pallid, but beautiful face, then dropping his hat to chafe the limp little hands. With eyes full of terror he glanced up at his cousin. With a voice half-choked with dread, he called to her, "Let those little brutes go, Pris, and come here quick!" But Priscilla, with wisdom untrammeled by passion and dread, lashed their bits to a tree trunk before she would quit her charges, and by the time she reached the interesting group at the water's edge the dusky head was pillowed on a tan-colored knee, and further supported by a tan-colored arm, and the loveliest dark eyes in the world, just unclosing, were gazing imploringly up into her cousin's agonized features. A faint flush was rising to the soft cheek, and lips that were colorless but a moment or two agone, now reddening again, now quivering and beautifully alluring, seemed almost uplifting, as though to reward, to welcome his, as with joy unmistakable they murmured, "Sandy—Sandy—I knew—you'd come."