“Aren’t you going to welcome me, dearie?”

From the porch of the Bar B ranchhouse Rosalind had watched the rapid approach of the buckboard, and she now stood at the edge of the step leading to the porch, not more than ten or fifteen feet distant from the vehicle, shocked into dumb amazement.

“Why, yes—of course. That is—Why, what on earth brought you out here?”

“A perfectly good train—as far as your awfully crude town of Manti; and this—er—spring-legged thing, the rest of the way,” laughed Hester Harvey. She had stepped down, a trifle flushed, inwardly amused, outwardly embarrassed—which was very good acting; but looking very attractive and girlish in the simple dress she had donned for the occasion—and for the purpose of making a good impression. So attractive was she that the contemplation of her brought a sinking sensation to Rosalind that drooped her shoulders, and caused her to look around, involuntarily, for something to lean upon. For there flashed into her mind at this instant the conviction that she had herself to blame for this visitation—she had written to Ruth Gresham, and Ruth very likely had disseminated the news, after the manner of all secrets, and Hester had heard it. And of course the attraction was “Brand” Trevison! A new emotion surged through Rosalind at this thought, an emotion so strong that it made her gasp—jealousy!

She got through the ordeal somehow—with an appearance of pleasure—though it was hard for her to play the hypocrite! But so soon as she decently could, without cutting short the inevitable inconsequential chatter which fills the first moments of renewed friendships, she hurried Hester to a room and during her absence sat immovable in her chair on the porch staring stonily out at the plains.

It was not until half an hour later, when they were sitting on the porch, that Hester delivered the stroke that caused Rosalind’s hands to fall nervelessly into her lap, her lips to quiver and her eyes to fill with a reflection of a pain that gripped her hard, somewhere inside. For Hester had devised her method, as suggested by Corrigan.

“It may seem odd to you—if you know anything of the manner of my breaking off with Trevison Brandon—but he wrote me about a month ago, asking me to come out here. I didn’t accept the invitation at once—because I didn’t want him to be too sure, you know, dearie. Men are always presuming and pursuing, dearie.”

“Then you didn’t hear of Trevison’s whereabouts from Ruth Gresham?”

“Why, no, dearie! He wrote directly to me.”

Rosalind hadn’t that to reproach herself with, at any rate!

“Of course, I couldn’t go to his ranch—the Diamond K, isn’t it?—so, noting from one of the newspapers that you had come here, I decided to take advantage of your hospitality. I’m just wild to see the dear boy! Is his ranch far? For you know,” she added, with a malicious look at the girl’s pale face; “I must not keep him waiting, now that I am here.”

“You won’t find him prosperous.” It hurt Rosalind to say that, but the hurt was slightly offset by a savage resentment that gripped her when she thought of how quickly Hester had thrown Trevison over when she had discovered that he was penniless. And she had a desperate hope that the dismal aspect of Trevison’s future would appall Hester—as it would were the woman still the mercenary creature she had been ten years before. But Hester looked at her with grave imperturbability.

“I heard something about his trouble. About some land, isn’t it? I didn’t learn the particulars. Tell me about it—won’t you, dearie?”

Rosalind’s story of Trevison’s difficulties did not have the effect that she anticipated.

“The poor, dear boy!” said Hester—and she seemed genuinely moved. Rosalind gulped hard over the shattered ruins of this last hope and got up, fighting against an inhospitable impulse to order Hester away. She made some slight excuse and slipped to her room, where she stayed long, elemental passions battling riotously within her.

She realized now how completely she had yielded to the spell that the magnetic and impetuous exile had woven about her; she knew now that had he pressed her that day when he had told her of his love for her she must have surrendered. She thought, darkly, of his fiery manner that day, of his burning looks, his hot, impulsive words, of his confidences. Hypocrisy all! For while they had been together he must have been thinking of sending for Hester! He had been trifling with her! Faith in an ideal is a sacred thing, and shattered, it lights the fires of hate and scorn, and the emotions that seethed through Rosalind’s veins as in her room she considered Trevison’s unworthiness, finally developed into a furious vindictiveness. She wished dire, frightful calamities upon him, and then, swiftly reacting, her sympathetical womanliness forced the dark passions back, and she threw herself on the bed, sobbing, murmuring: “Forgive me!”

Later, when she had made herself presentable, she went downstairs again, concealing her misery behind a steady courtesy and a smile that sometimes was a little forced and bitter, to entertain her guest. It was a long, tiresome day, made almost unbearable by Hester’s small talk. But she got through it. And when, rather late in the afternoon, Hester inquired the way to the Diamond K, announcing her intention of visiting Trevison immediately, she gave no evidence of the shocked surprise that seized her. She coolly helped Hester prepare for the trip, and when she drove away in the buckboard, stood on the ground at the edge of the porch, watching as the buckboard and its occupant faded into the shimmering haze of the plains.