"You must think me rude," apologized Hope, entering the tent as quickly as she had left it, and seating herself directly beside Livingston. "I surely didn't intend to be gone so long."

"So long!" exclaimed Mrs. Van Rensselaer. "Why, I hadn't missed you! Where in the world have you been?"

"Oh, now I'll not tell you!" laughed the girl, while her face flushed deeply.

"But you were missed," said Livingston. "You've been gone just ten minutes."

She looked at him and smiled at her own mistake. It seemed to her that she had been gone an hour. He was dazzled by the unusual brilliancy of her face, the strange light in her eyes. The smile, he thought, was for himself. "Did the moonlight transform you?" he asked. She only laughed in reply. Her heart was bounding in very joy of life now that she saw her way clear through the grave difficulty that had confronted her. A great tragedy would be averted, a lot of unscrupulous men brought to justice, and more than this—the boy beside her was safe. What mattered it to her at this moment that he possessed somewhere in the universe a wife, which irrevocably separated her from him by every social law and moral rule? This was nothing to her now in view of the great sense of his personal safety that lifted such a weight of fear from her heart. Nothing mattered much since he was safe. How desperate the chance had seemed, and now how easily the danger averted!

Livingston knew little of the thoughts that played wildly in her brain while she, to all intents, was listening with eager, brilliant face to Clarice's light chatter. But Mrs. Van Rensselaer was tired. Her chatter began to fag. Outside the shadows settled down about the tents, until the moon rose above the mountain like a great ball of fire, casting over everything the soft radiance of its white light. The night was almost as bright as day. Livingston reluctantly said good-night, and went out with Sydney to get his horse, which was staked some little distance away. When they returned to saddle up a movement on the opposite side of the brush attracted Sydney's attention, and borrowing the horse he rode over to investigate. Livingston, wondering vaguely what had taken him away so abruptly, seated himself upon the tongue of the camp wagon and listened to the soft tones of women's voices from the white tent near the bank. Quite without warning a hand was laid upon his shoulder. "Where did Syd go?" asked Hope.

"Over there," replied Livingston, rising quickly beside her, and pointing across the brush. "He took my horse to drive out some cattle, I think, and so I am waiting. I thought you had retired. Did you come to say good-night to me?"

"Yes," said the girl softly, "what of it?"

"Everything! That you should care that much—that you——"

"But I wouldn't need to care—so very much—to come to bid you good-night—would I?" she interrupted.

"No—perhaps; but you do care! I seem to feel that you care for me—Hope!"

"No! I don't care for you a bit! Not at all—I mean——You haven't any right to talk to me like that! Certainly, I don't care for you, Mr. Livingston. Oh, I didn't mean to hurt you! I mean——This is no time for such things!"

"Hope!"

"Wait, listen! They will hear. See, Syd is coming!" She stepped back from him, pointing.

"What of it! You shall tell me! Look at me!" he commanded. "Do you know what you are making me believe—what you are telling me?"

"Nothing!" she insisted. "I am telling you nothing—only—wait!" She spoke hurriedly, catching her breath. "Before day-break I will be on that hill over there between your ranch and here—there above Fritz's grave, to watch the dawn of day—and the sunrise and——"

"And I will be waiting for you! God bless you, dear." He kissed the brown hand, which was snatched hurriedly from his clasp just as Sydney rode up beside them.

"You mustn't believe anything," she gasped under her breath.

"Everything!" he insisted.

"Your horse is loose, pard," said Sydney, "I thought I caught sight of it over there, but couldn't see anything of it when I rode over. You're afoot! Now what are you going to do about it?"

"Walk," replied the girl, darting a quick look at Livingston. "Half a mile is nothing."

"Half a mile," laughed her cousin. "You mean two miles and a half, don't you?"

"Oh, the horse isn't far! We'll find it the first thing in the morning. Good-night, you two! It's time school-teachers were in bed—and everyone else. Good-night!" She turned around and waved her hand at them just before the flap of the white tent closed upon her.

Clarice yawned dismally. "Will you never settle down, Hope? Isn't this lovely and comfortable? So cool after the hot, fatiguing day, I just love it! Whom were you talking to—Livingston? What a shame he's married! He's such a dear boy, why, I'd almost be tempted, if he wasn't married——But pshaw! Lady Helene Livingston is one of those frizzy-haired blondes that suggest curl papers and peroxide, and she affects velvet dresses, black or purple—but always velvet—and a feather! I've seen her loads of times, but she doesn't go in our set, because she's taken up with those Grandons. You know Harriet married an English peer, with a title, nobody over there recognizes. She was such a pretty girl that she might have done something for her family, but I don't think the poor man fared as well as he expected, for it's well known that old Grandon hasn't a half a million in his own name. But Harriet lives well, and entertains a lot of English people nobody else cares to have. Lady Helene Livingston is pretty enough in spite of her velvet and feathers to get on anywhere, if only she didn't follow in the train of Harriet's crowd. I wonder how it happens that she never comes out here?"

"The curl papers and velvet may have something to do with that," said Hope, settling down beside Louisa, on the opposite side of the tent, with a motion as weary as if the only thought she possessed was to secure a good night's sleep. "Velvet and feathers," she yawned. "Clarice, do you know that it's nearly eleven o'clock?"

"Really!" exclaimed Mrs. Van Rensselaer. "I'd never have thought it. See how bright it is in here—almost like day."

"Full moon," observed Hope. "It will be light like this until almost morning, and then darkness for a little while before daylight."

"How well you understand such things, Hope! I should think it would be very difficult to keep track of the moon."

"Yes," yawned the girl, "it is. We'd better go to sleep, Clarice, because as soon as the sun is up it will be too warm to stay in here, so you won't get your morning nap. That's the worst of a tent."

"What a shame!" sighed Mrs. Van Rensselaer. Then after ten minutes of silence: "Hope, I want you to go back to New York with me next week. Now, no joking, dear, I mean it."

"No," replied Hope. "It's too roasting hot there at this season. I couldn't think of it, Clarice."

"But we're going by way of the Lakes, and take in a lot of those cool summer resorts. Then I must get to Newport for the last of the season, and after that, you know, it will be decent weather in New York, and we can have no end of good times. Come now, Hope, just make up your mind to go!"

"You forget, I must teach my school for several weeks yet, so that settles it. Good-night, Clarice! Go to sleep like a good girl."

"What does this little school amount to, to you?" insisted Mrs. Van Rensselaer. "Not a thing, and you know it! You just don't want to go with us. Come on, please do go, that's a dear girlie!"

"Impossible, Clarice," replied Hope. "There are many good reasons why I really couldn't. This school up here, and my little Louisa, and, anyway, I don't want to go. Aren't you very tired and sleepy, Clarice?" She thought Mrs. Van Rensselaer bid fair to remain awake all night, and was devising various schemes in her mind for getting away from her. But Mrs. Van Rensselaer had an object in view, and disliked exceedingly to give it up.

"I really don't think you ought to stay up here, Hope. To be candid, I don't just like your position. Of course, in this country, conventionalities don't count for much, but honestly I think this Livingston is caring for you."

"What in the world put such an idea into your head?" asked the girl, flushing beneath her cover of blankets.

"Hope!" reproved Mrs. Van Rensselaer. "You know it, and I know it, so what's the use of denying it? But, of course, if you think it's right——Really, I have nothing further to say except that I wish you would return with me, and bring your little Louisa along."

The girl was silent for a moment, forgetting her anxiety to get away, in thoughts Clarice had suggested.

"Has he any family?" she suddenly asked. "I mean—children, Clarice."

"I don't think so. But what difference would that make?"

"No difference in reality—but a heap of difference in my thoughts. If he had a family,—children,—it would seem more natural to think of him as being a married man, a family man. As it is, I will remember him as a true-hearted, free young Englishman."

"I think, Hopie, his being married has spoiled a very pretty romance. I wish it might have been different, dear!"

"You are too sleepy to know what you think. Go to sleep and dream that I shall join you in New York as soon as the school is ended."