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 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA
 
 GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL'S 
 
 Charming and Wholesome Romances 
 
 The City of Fire 
 The Girl from Montana 
 The Story of a Whim 
 The Tryst 
 Exit Betty 
 Cloudy Jewel 
 The Search 
 'The Red Signal 
 The Enchanted Barn 
 The Finding of Jasper Holt 
 The Obsession of Victoria Gracen 
 Miranda 
 The Best Man 
 Lo, Michael ! 
 Marcia Schuyler 
 Phoebe Deane 
 Dawn of the Morning 
 The Mystery of Mary
 
 THE GIRL FROM 
 MONTANA 
 
 By 
 Grace Livingston Hill 
 
 (.Mrs. Lutz) 
 
 Author of "Marcia Schuyler," "Lo, Michaell* 
 "The Tryst," etc. 
 
 Philadelphia and London 
 J. B. Lippincott Company
 
 COPTBIQHT, 1907 AND 1908, BT THE GOLDEN BULB COMPANT 
 C0F7B10HT) 1922, BT J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANT 
 
 PKINTED BT J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANT 
 
 AT THE WASHINGTON SQUARE PBBS8 
 
 PHILADELPHIA, TT. S. A.
 
 PS 
 
 Zi 
 
 //55"/^ 
 
 S)eMcatc& to 
 
 MISS VIRGINIA COWAN 
 
 OF COWAN, MONTANA, WHOSE BRIGHT, BREEZY 
 
 LETTERS AIDED ME IN WRITING OF 
 
 ELIZABETH'S EXPERIENCES 
 
 IN THE WEST 

 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. Tee Girl, and a Great Peril 9 
 
 II. The Flight 19 
 
 III. The Pursuit 33 
 
 rV. The Two Fugitives 46 
 
 V. A Night Ride 56 
 
 VI. A Christian Endeavor Meeting in the Wilderness 66 
 
 VII. Bad News 83 
 
 VEIL The Parting 93 
 
 rX. In A Trap 104 
 
 X. Philadelphia at Last 117 
 
 XI. In Flight Again ^ . ._. 132 
 
 Xll. Elizabeth s Declaration of Independence 140 
 
 XIII. Another Grandmother 150 
 
 XIV. In A New World 164 
 
 XV. An Eventful Picnic 174 
 
 XVI. Alone Again 187 
 
 XVII. A Final Flight and Pursuit 197
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE GIRL, AND A GREAT PERIL 
 
 The late afternoon sun was streaming in across the 
 cabin floor as the girl stole around the corner and looked 
 cautiously in at the door. 
 
 There was a kind of tremulous courage in her face. 
 She had a duty to perform, and she was resolved to do it 
 without delay. She shaded her eyes with her hand from 
 the glare of the sun, set a firm foot upon the threshold, 
 and, with one wild glance around to see whether all was 
 as she had left it, entered her home and stood for a moment 
 shuddering in the middle of the floor. 
 
 A long procession of funerals seemed to come out of 
 the past and meet her eye as she looked about upon the 
 signs of the primitive, unhallowed one which had just 
 gone out from there a little while before. 
 
 The girl closed her eyes, and pressed their hot, dry lids 
 hard with her cold fingers; but the vision was clearer even 
 than with her eyes open. 
 
 She could see the tiny baby sister lying there in the 
 middle of the room, so little and white and pitiful; and 
 her handsome, careless father sitting at the head of the 
 rude home-made coffin, sober for the moment; and her 
 tired, disheartened mother, faded before her time, dry- 
 eyed and haggard, beside him. But that was long ago, 
 almost at the beginning of things for the girl. 
 
 There had been other funerals, the little brother who 
 had been drowned while playing in a forbidden stream, 
 
 9
 
 10 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 and the older brother who had gone off in search of gold 
 or his own way, and had crawled back parched with fever 
 to die in his mother's arms. But those, too, seemed long 
 ago to the girl as she stood in the empty cabin and looked 
 fearfully about her. They seemed almost blotted out 
 by the last three that had crowded so close within the 
 year. The father, who even at his worst had a kind 
 word for her and her mother, had been brought home 
 mortally hurt — an encounter with wild cattle, a fall 
 from his horse in a treacherous place — and had never 
 roused to consciousness again. 
 
 At all these funerals there had been a solemn service, 
 conducted by a travelling preacher when one happened 
 to be within reach, and, when there was none, by the 
 trembling, determined, untaught lips of the white-faced 
 mother. The mother had always insisted upon it, 
 especially upon a prayer. It had seemed like a charm to 
 help the departed one into some kind of a pitiful heaven. 
 
 And when, a few months after the father, the mother 
 had drooped and grown whiter and whiter, till one day 
 she clutched at her heart and lay down gasping, and said: 
 ''Good-by, Bess! Mother's good girl! Don't forget!" 
 and was gone from her life of burden and disappointment 
 forever, the girl had prepared the funeral with the assist- 
 ance of the one brother left. The girl's voice had uttered 
 the prayer, ''Our Father,'^ just as her mother had 
 taught her, because there was no one else to do it ; and she 
 was afraid to send the wild young brother off after a 
 preacher, lest he should not return in time. 
 
 It was six months now since the sad funeral train had 
 wound its way among sage-brush and grease wood, and 
 the body of the mother had been laid to rest beside her 
 husband. For six months the girl had kept the cabin in
 
 THE GIRL, AND A GREAT PERIL 11 
 
 order, and held as far as possible the wayward brother 
 to his work and home. But within the last few weeks he 
 had more and more left her alone, for a day, and some- 
 times more, and had come home in a sad condition and 
 with bold, merry companions who made her life a constant 
 terror. And now, but two short days ago, they had 
 brought home his body lying across his own faithful 
 horse, with two shots through his heart. It was a 
 drunken quarrel, they told her; and all were sorry, but no 
 one seemed responsible. 
 
 They had been kind in their rough way, those com- 
 panions of her brother. They had stayed and done all 
 that was necessary, had dug the grave, and stood about 
 their comrade in good-natured grimness, marching in 
 order about him to give the last look; but, when the 
 sister tried to utter the prayer she knew her mother 
 would have spoken, her throat refused to make a sound, 
 and her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth. She 
 had taken sudden refuge in the little shed that was her 
 own room, and there had stayed till the rough com- 
 panions had taken away the still form of the only one 
 left in the family circle. 
 
 In silence the funeral train wound its way to the spot 
 where the others were buried. They respected her tear- 
 less grief, these great, passionate, uncontrolled young 
 men. They held in the rude jokes with which they would 
 have taken the awesomeness from the occasion for them- 
 selves, and for the most part kept the way silently and 
 gravely, now and then looking back with admiration to 
 the slim girl with the stony face and unblinking eyes who 
 followed them mechanically. They had felt that some 
 one ought to do something; but no one knew exactly 
 what, and so they walked silently.
 
 12 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 Only one, the hardest and boldest, the ringleader of the 
 company, ventured back to ask whether there was any- 
 thing he could do for her, anything she would like to have 
 done; but she answered him coldly with a "No!" that cut 
 him to the quick. It had been a good deal for him to do, 
 this touch of gentleness he had forced himself into. He 
 turned from her with a wicked gleam of intent in his 
 eyes, but she did not see it. 
 
 When the rude ceremony was over, the last clod was 
 heaped upon the pitiful mound, and the relentless words, 
 ''dust to dust," had been murmured by one more daring 
 than the rest, they turned and looked at the girl, who had 
 all the time stood upon a mound of earth and watched 
 them, as a statue of Misery might look down upon the 
 world. They could not make her out, this silent, marble 
 girl. They hoped now she would change. It was over. 
 They felt an untold relief themselves from the fact that 
 their reckless, gay comrade was no longer lying cold and 
 still among them. They were done with him. They had 
 paid their last tribute, and wished to forget. He must 
 settle his own account with the hereafter now; they had 
 enough in their own lives without the burden of his. 
 
 Then there had swept up into the girl's face one gleam 
 of life that made her beautiful for the instant, and she 
 had bowed to them with a slow, almost haughty, inclina- 
 tion of her head, and spread out her hands like one who 
 would like to bless but dared not, and said clearly, "I 
 thank you — all!" There had been just a slight hesita- 
 tion before that last word "all," as if she were not quite 
 Bure, as her eyes rested upon the ringleader with doubt 
 and dislike; then her lips had hardened as if justice must 
 be done, and she had spoken it, "all!" and, turning, sped 
 away to her cabin alone.
 
 THE GIRL, AND A GREAT PERIL 13 
 
 They were taken by surprise, those men who feared 
 nothing in the wild and primitive West, and for a moment 
 they watched her go in silence. Then the words that 
 broke upon the air were not all pleasant to hear; and, if 
 the girl could have known, she would have sped far 
 faster, and her cheeks would have burned a brighter red 
 than they did. 
 
 But one, the boldest, the ringleader, said nothing. 
 His brows darkened, and the wicked gleam came and sat 
 in his hard eyes with a green light. He drew a little 
 apart from the rest, and walked on more rapidly. When 
 he came to the place where they had left their horses, he 
 took his and went on toward the cabin with a look that 
 did not invite the others to follow. As their voices died 
 away in the distance, and he drew nearer to the cabin, 
 his eyes gleamed with cunning. 
 
 The girl in the cabin worked rapidly. One by one she 
 took the boxes on which the rude coffin of her brother 
 had rested, and threw them far out the back door. She 
 straightened the furniture around fiercely, as if by erasing 
 every sign she would force from memory the thought of 
 the scenes that had just passed. She took her brother's 
 coat that hung against the wall, and an old pipe from the 
 mantle, and hid them in the room that was hers. Then 
 she looked about for something else to be done. 
 
 A shadow darkened the sunny doorway. Ijooking up, 
 she saw the man she believed to be her brother's mur- 
 derer. 
 
 ''I came back, Bess, to see if I could do anything for 
 you." 
 
 The tone was kind; but the girl involuntarily put her 
 hand to her throat, and caught her breath. She would 
 like to speak out and tell him what she thought, but she
 
 14 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 dared not. She did not even dare let her thought appear 
 in her eyes. The dull, statue-like look came over her 
 face that she had worn at the grave. The man thought it 
 was the stupefaction of grief. 
 
 ''I told you I didn't want any help," she said, trying 
 to speak in the same tone she had used when she thanked 
 the men. 
 
 "Yes, but you're all alone," said the man insinuatingly; 
 she felt a menace in the thought, ''and I am sorry for 
 you!" 
 
 He came nearer, but her face was cold. Instinctively 
 she glanced to the cupboard door behind which lay her 
 brother's belt with two pistols. 
 
 ''You're very kind," she forced herself to say; "but I'd 
 rather be alone now." It was hard to speak so when she 
 would have liked to dash on him, and call down curses 
 for the death of her brother; but she looked into his evil 
 face, and a fear for herself worse than death stole into her 
 heart. 
 
 He took encouragement from her gentle dignity. 
 Where did she get that manner so imperial, she, born in a 
 mountain cabin and bred on the wilds? How could she 
 speak with an accent so different from those about her? 
 The brother was not so, not so much so; the mother had 
 been plain and quiet. He had not known her father, for 
 he had lately come to this State in hiding from another. 
 He wondered, with his wide knowledge of the world, over 
 her wild, haughty beauty, and gloated over it. He liked 
 to think just what worth was within his easy grasp. A 
 prize for the taking, and here alone, unprotected. 
 
 "But it ain't good for you to be alone, you know, and 
 I've come to protect you. Besides, you need cheering 
 up, little girl." He came closer. "I love you, Bess, you
 
 THE GIRL, AND A GREAT PERIL 15 
 
 know, and I'm going to take care of you now. You're 
 all alone. Poor little girl." 
 
 He was so near that she almost felt his breath against 
 her cheek. She faced him desperately, growing white to 
 the lips. Was there nothing on earth or in heaven to 
 save her? Mother! Father! Brother! All gone! Ah! 
 Could she but have known that the quarrel which ended 
 her wild young brother's life had been about her, perhaps 
 pride in him would have salved her grief, and choked 
 her horror. 
 
 While she watched the green lights play in the evil 
 eyes above her, she gathered all the strength of her young 
 life into one effort, and schooled herself to be calm. She 
 controlled her involuntary shrinking from the man, only 
 drew herself back gently, as a woman with wider experi- 
 ence and gentler breeding might have done. 
 
 ''Remember," she said, ''that my brother just lay there 
 dead!" and she pointed to the empty centre of the room. 
 The dramatic attitude was almost a condemnation to the 
 guilty man before her. He drew back as if the sheriff 
 had entered the room, and looked instinctively to where 
 the coffin had been but a short time before, then laughed 
 nervously and drew himself together. 
 
 The girl caught her breath, and took courage. She 
 had held him for a minute; could she not hold him longer? 
 
 "Think!" said she. "He is but just buried. It is not 
 right to talk of such things as love in this room where he 
 has just gone out. You must leave me alone for a little 
 while. I cannot talk and think now. We must respect 
 the dead, you know." She looked appealingly at him, 
 acting her part desperately, but well. It was as if she 
 were trying to charm a lion or an insane man. 
 
 He stood admiring her. She argued well. He was
 
 16 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 half -minded to humor her, for somehow when she spoke 
 of the dead he could see the gleam in her brother's eyes 
 just before he shot him. Then there was promise in this 
 wooing. She was no girl to be lightly won, after all. 
 She could hold her own, and perhaps she would be the 
 better for having her way for a little. At any rate, there 
 was more excitement in such game. 
 
 She saw that she was gaining, and her breath came 
 freer. 
 
 "Go!" she said with a flickering smile. ''Go! For 
 — a little while," and then she tried to smile again. 
 
 He made a motion to take her in his arms and kiss her; 
 but she drew back suddenly, and spread her hands before 
 her, motioning him back. 
 
 ''I tell you you must not now. Go! Go! or I will never 
 speak to you again." 
 
 He looked into her eyes, and seemed to feel a power 
 that he must obey. Half sullenly he drew back toward 
 the door. 
 
 ''But, Bess, this ain't the way to treat a fellow," he 
 whined. "I came way back here to take care of you. I 
 tell you I love you, and I'm going to have you. There 
 ain't any other fellow going to run off with you " 
 
 "Stop!" she cried tragically. "Don't you see you're 
 not doing right? My brother is just dead. I must have 
 some time to mourn. It is only decent." She was 
 standing now with her back to the little cupboard behind 
 whose door lay the two pistols. Her hand was behind 
 her on the wooden latch. 
 
 "You don't respect my trouble!" she said, catching 
 her breath, and putting her hand to her eyes. "I don't 
 believe you care for me when you don't do what I say." 
 
 The man was held at bay. He was almost conquered
 
 THE GIRL, AND A GREAT PERIL 17 
 
 by her sign of tears. It was a new phase of her to see her 
 melt into weakness so. He was charmed. 
 
 "How long must I stay away?" he faltered. 
 
 She could scarcely speak, so desperate she felt. if 
 she dared but say, ''Forever," and shout it at him! She 
 was desperate enough to try her chances at shooting him 
 if she but had the pistols, and was sure they were loaded 
 — a desperate chance indeed against the best shot on the 
 Pacific coast, and a desperado at that. 
 
 She pressed her hands to her throbbing temples, and 
 tried to think. At last she faltered out, 
 
 "Three days!" 
 
 He swore beneath his breath, and his brows drew down 
 in heavy frowns that were not good to see. She shud- 
 dered at what it would be to be in his power forever. 
 How he would play with her and toss her aside! Or kill 
 her, perhaps, when he was tired of her! Her life on the 
 mountain had made her familiar with evil characters. 
 
 He came a step nearer, and she felt she was losing 
 ground. 
 
 Straightening up, she said coolly: 
 
 "'You must go away at once, and not think of coming 
 back at least until to-morrow night. Go!" With won- 
 derful control she smiled at him, one frantic, brilliant 
 smile; and to her great wonder he drew back. At the 
 door he paused, a softened look upon his face. 
 
 "Mayn't I kiss you before I go?" 
 
 She shuddered involuntarily, but put out her hands 
 in protest again. "Not to-night!" She shook her head, 
 and tried to smile. 
 
 He thought he understood her, but turned away half 
 satisfied. Then she heard his step coming back to the 
 door again, and she went to meet him. He must not
 
 18 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 come in. She had gained in sending him out, if she could 
 but close the door fast. It was in the doorway that she 
 faced him as he stood with one foot ready to enter again. 
 The crafty look was out upon his face plainly now, and in 
 the sunlight she could see it. 
 
 *'You will be all alone to-night.'' 
 
 **I am not afraid," calmly. **And no one will trouble 
 me. Don't you know what they say about the spirit of a 
 man — " she stopped; she had almost said "a man who 
 has been murdered" — ^'coming back to his home the 
 first night after he is buried?" It was her last frantic 
 effort. 
 
 The man before her trembled, and looked around 
 nervously. 
 
 "You better come away to-night with me," he said, 
 edging away from the door. 
 
 *'See, the sun is going down! You must go now," she 
 said imperiously; and reluctantly the man mounted his 
 restless horse, and rode away down the mountain. 
 
 She watched him silhouetted against the blood-red 
 globe of the sun as it sank lower and lower. She could 
 see every outline of his slouch-hat and muscular shoulders 
 as he turned now and then and saw her standing still 
 alone at her cabin door. Why he was going he could not 
 tell; but he went, and he frowned as he rode away, with the 
 wicked gleam still in his eye; for he meant to return. 
 
 At last he disappeared; and the girl, turning, looked 
 up, and there rode the white ghost of the moon overhead. 
 She was alone.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE FLIGHT 
 
 A GREAT fear settled down upon the girl as she realized 
 that she was alone and, for a few hours at least, free. It 
 was a marvellous escape. Even now she could hear the 
 echo of the man's last words, and see his hateful smile as 
 he waved his good-by and promised to come back for 
 her to-morrow. 
 
 She felt sure he would not wait until the night. It 
 might be he would return even yet. She cast another 
 reassuring look down the darkening road, and strained 
 her ear; but she could no longer hear hoof-beats. Never- 
 theless, it behooved her to hasten. He had blanched at 
 her suggestion of walking spirits; but, after all, his courage 
 might arise. She shuddered to think of his returning 
 later, in the night. She must fly somewhere at once. 
 
 Instantly her dormant senses seemed to be on the alert. 
 Fully fledged plans flashed through her brain. She went 
 into the cabin, and barred the door. She made every 
 movement swiftly, as if she had not an instant to spare. 
 Who could tell? He might return even before dark. He 
 had been hard to baffle, and she did not feel at all secure. 
 It was her one chance of safety to get away speedily, 
 whither it mattered little, only so she was away and 
 hidden. 
 
 Her first act inside the cottage was to get the belt from 
 the cupboard and buckle it around her waist. She ex- 
 amined and loaded the pistols. Her throat seemed 
 
 19
 
 20 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 seized with sudden constriction when she discovered that 
 the barrels had been empty and the weapons would have 
 done her no good even if she could have reached them. 
 
 She put into her belt the sharp little knife her brother 
 used to carry, and then began to gather together every- 
 thing eatable that she could carry with her. There was 
 not much that could be easily carried — some dried beef, 
 a piece of cheese, some corn-meal, a piece of pork, a hand- 
 ful of cheap coffee-berries, and some pieces of hard corn 
 bread. She hesitated over a pan half full of baked beans, 
 and finally added them to the store. They were bulky, 
 but she ought to take them if she could. There was 
 nothing else in the house that seemed advisable to take 
 in the way of eatables. Their stores had been running 
 low, and the trouble of the last day or two had put house- 
 keeping entirely out of her mind. She had not cared to 
 eat, and now it occurred to her that food had not passed 
 her lips that day. With strong self-control she forced 
 herself to eat a few of the dry pieces of corn bread, and to 
 drink some cold coffee that stood in the little coffee-pot. 
 This she did while she worked, wasting not one minute. 
 
 There were some old flour-sacks in the house. She put 
 the eatables into two of them, with the pan of beans on 
 the top, adding a tin cup, and tied them securely together. 
 Then she went into her little shed room, and put on the 
 few extra garments in her wardrobe. They were not 
 many, and that was the easiest way to carry them. Her 
 mother's wedding-ring, sacredly kept in a box since the 
 mother's death, she slipped upon her finger. It seemed 
 the closing act of her life in the cabin, and she paused and 
 bent her head as if to ask the mother's permission that she 
 might wear the ring. It seemed a kind of protection to 
 her in her lonely situation.
 
 THE FLIGHT 21 
 
 There were a few papers and an old letter or two 
 yellow with years, which the mother had always guarded 
 sacredly. One was the certificate of her mother's mar- 
 riage. The girl did not know what the others were. She 
 had never looked into them closely, but she knew that 
 her mother had counted them precious. These she 
 pinned into the bosom of her calico gown. Then she 
 was ready. 
 
 She gave one swift glance of farewell about the cabin 
 where she had spent nearly all of her life that she could 
 remember, gathered up the two flour-sacks and an old 
 coat of her father's that hung on the wall, remembering 
 at the last minute to put into its pocket the few matches 
 and the single candle left in the house, and went out from 
 the cabin, closing the door behind her. 
 
 She paused, looking down the road, and listened again; 
 but no sound came to her save a distant howl of a wolf. 
 The moon rode high and clear by this time; and it seemed 
 not so lonely here, with everything bathed in soft silver, 
 as it had in the darkening cabin with its flickering candle. 
 
 The girl stole out from the cabin and stealthily across 
 the patch of moonlight into the shadow of the shackly 
 barn where stamped the poor, ill-fed, faithful horse that 
 her brother had ridden to his death upon. All her move- 
 ments were stealthy as a cat's. 
 
 She laid the old coat over the horse's back, swung her 
 brother's saddle into place, — she had none of her own, 
 and could ride his, or without any; it made no difference, 
 for she was perfectly at home on horseback, — and 
 strapped the girths with trembling fingers that were icy 
 cold with excitement. Across the saddle-bows she hung 
 the two flour-sacks containing her provisions. Then with 
 added caution she tied some old burlap about each of the
 
 22 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 horse's feet. She must make no sound and leave no track 
 as she stole forth into the great world. 
 
 The horse looked curiously down and whinnied at her, 
 as she tied his feet up clumsily. He did not seem to like 
 his new habiliments, but he suffered anything at her 
 hand. 
 
 "Hush!" she murmured softly, laying her cold hands 
 across his nostrils; and he put his muzzle into her palm, 
 and seemed to understand. 
 
 She led him out into the clear moonlight then, and 
 paused a second, looking once more down the road that 
 led away in front of the cabin; but no one was coming yet, 
 though her heart beat high as she listened, fancying every 
 falling bough or rolling stone was a horse's hoof-beat. 
 
 There were three trails leading away from the cabin, 
 for they could hardly be dignified by the name of road. 
 One led down the mountain toward the west, and was 
 the way they took to the nearest clearing five or six miles 
 beyond and to the supply store some three miles further. 
 One led off to the east, and was less travelled, being the 
 way to the great world; and the third led down behind the 
 cabin, and was desolate and barren under the moon. It 
 led down, back, and away to desolation, where five graves 
 lay stark and ugly at the end. It was the way they had 
 taken that afternoon. 
 
 She paused just an instant as if hesitating which way 
 to take. Not the way to the west — ah, any but that! 
 To the east? Yes, surely, that must be the trail she would 
 eventually strike; but she had a duty yet to perform. 
 That prayer was as yet unsaid, and before she was free 
 to seek safety — if safety there were for her in the wide 
 world — she must take her way down the lonely path. 
 She walked, leading the horse, which followed her with
 
 THE FLIGHT 23 
 
 muffled tread and arched neck as if he felt he were doing 
 homage to the dead. Slowly, silently, she moved along 
 into the river of moonlight and dreariness; for the moon- 
 light here seemed cold, like the graves it shone upon, and 
 the girl, as she walked with bowed head, almost fancied 
 she saw strange misty forms flit past her in the night. 
 
 As they came in sight of the graves, something dark 
 and wild with plumy tail slunk away into the shadows, 
 and seemed a part of the place. The girl stopped a mo- 
 ment to gain courage in full sight of the graves, and the 
 horse snorted, and stopped too, with his ears a-quiver, 
 and a half-fright in his eyes. 
 
 She patted his neck and soothed him incoherently, as 
 she buried her face in his mane for a moment, and let the 
 first tears that had dimmed her eyes since the blow had 
 fallen come smarting their way out. Then, leaving the 
 horse to stand curiously watching her, she went down 
 and stood at the head of the new-heaped mound. She 
 tried to kneel, but a shudder passed through her. It was 
 as if she were descending into the place of the dead her- 
 self; so she stood up and raised her eyes to the wide white 
 night and the moon riding so high and far away. 
 
 ''Our Father," she said in a voice that sounded miles 
 away to herself. Was there any Father, and could He 
 hear her? And did He care? ''Which art in heaven — '* 
 but heaven was so far away and looked so cruelly serene 
 to her in her desolateness and danger! "hallowed be thy 
 name. Thy kingdom come — " whatever that might 
 mean. "Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven." 
 It was a long prayer to pray, alone with the pale moon- 
 rain and the graves, and a distant wolf, but it was her 
 mother's wish. Her will being done here over the dead 
 — was that anything like the will of the Father being
 
 24 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 done in heaven? Her untrained thoughts hovered on the 
 verge of great questions, and then slipped back into her 
 pathetic self and its fear, while her tongue hurried on 
 through the words of the prayer. 
 
 Once the horse stirred and breathed a soft protest. 
 He could not understand why they were stopping so long 
 in this desolate place, for nothing apparently. He had 
 looked and looked at the shapeless mound before which 
 the girl was standing; but he saw no sign of his lost master, 
 and his instincts warned him that there were wild animals 
 about. Anyhow, this was no place for a horse and a maid 
 to stop in the night. 
 
 A few loose stones rattled from the horse^s motion. 
 The girl started, and looked hastily about, listening for 
 a possible pursuer; but everywhere in the white sea of 
 moonlight there was empty, desolate space. On to the 
 *'Amen" she finished then, and with one last look at the 
 lonely graves she turned to the horse. Now they might 
 go, for the duty was done, and there was no time to be 
 lost. 
 
 Somewhere over toward the east across that untra veiled 
 wilderness of white light was the trail that started to the 
 great world from the Httle cabin she had left. She dared 
 not go back to the cabin to take it, lest she find herself 
 already followed. She did not know the way across this 
 lonely plain, and neither did the horse. In fact, there 
 was no way, for it was all one arid plain so situated that 
 human traveller seldom came near it, so large and so 
 barren that one might wander for hours and gain no goal, 
 so dry that nothing would grow. 
 
 With another glance back on the way she had come, 
 the girl mounted the horse and urged him down into the 
 valley. He stepped cautiously into the sandy plain, as
 
 THE FLIGHT 25 
 
 if he were going into a river and must try its depth. He 
 did not like the going here, but he plodded on with his 
 burdens. The giri was light; he did not mind her weight; 
 but he felt this place uncanny, and now and then would 
 start on a little spurt of haste, to get into a better way. 
 He liked the high mountain trails, where he could step 
 firmly and hear the twigs crackle under his feet, not this 
 muffled, velvet way where one made so little progress and 
 had to work so hard. 
 
 The girl's heart sank as they went on, for the sand 
 seemed deep and drifted in places. She felt she was 
 losing time. The way ahead looked endless, as if they 
 were but treading sand behind them which only returned 
 in front to be trodden over again. It was to her like the 
 valley of the dead, and she longed to get out of it. A 
 great fear lest the moon should go down and leave her in 
 this low valley alone in the dark took hold upon her. 
 She felt she must get away, up higher. She turned the 
 horse a little more to the right, and he paused, and seemed 
 to survey the new direction and to like it. He stepped 
 up more briskly, with a courage that could come only 
 from an intelligent hope for better things. And at last 
 they were rewarded by finding the sand shallower, and 
 now and then a bit of rock cropping out for a firmer foot- 
 ing. 
 
 The young rider dismounted, and untied the burlap 
 from the horse's feet. He seemed to understand, and to 
 thank her as he nosed about her neck. He thought, per- 
 haps, that their mission was over and they were going to 
 strike out for home now. 
 
 The ground rose steadily before them now, and at times 
 grew quite steep; but the horse was fresh as yet, and 
 clambered upward with good heart; and the rider was
 
 26 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 used to rough places, and felt no discomfort from her 
 position. The fear of being followed had succeeded to 
 the fear of being lost, for the time being; and instead of 
 straining her ears on the track behind she was straining 
 her eyes to the wilderness before. The growth of sage- 
 brush was dense now, and trees were ahead. 
 
 After that the way seemed steep, and the rider's heart 
 stood still with fear lest she could never get up and over 
 to the trail which she knew must be somewhere in that 
 direction, though she had never been far out on its 
 course herself. That it led straight east into all the great 
 cities she never doubted, and she must find it before she 
 was pursued. That man would be angry, angry if he 
 came and found her gone! He was not beyond shooting 
 her for giving him the slip in this way. 
 
 The more she thought over it, the more frightened she 
 became, till every bit of rough way, and every barrier 
 that kept her from going forward quickly, seemed terrible 
 to her. A bob-cat shot across the way just ahead, and 
 the green gleam of its eyes as it turned one swift glance 
 at this strange intruder in its chosen haunts made her 
 catch her breath and put her hand on the pistols. 
 
 They were climbing a long time — it seemed hours to 
 the girl — when at last they came to a space where a 
 better view of the land was possible. It was high, and 
 sloped away on three sides. To her looking now in the 
 clear night the outline of a mountain ahead of her became 
 distinct, and the lay of the land was not what she had 
 supposed. It brought her a curious sense of being lost. 
 Over there ought to be the familiar way where the cabin 
 stood, but there was no sign of anything she had ever 
 seen before, though she searched eagerly for landmarks. 
 The course she had chosen, and which had seemed the
 
 THE FLIGHT 27 
 
 only one, would take her straight up, up over the moun- 
 tain, a way well-nigh impossible, and terrible even if it 
 were possible. 
 
 It was plain she must change her course, but which 
 way should she go? She was completely turned around. 
 After all, what mattered it? One way might be as good 
 as another, so it led not home to the cabin which could 
 never be home again. Why not give the horse his head, 
 and let him pick out a safe path? Was there danger 
 that he might carry her back to the cabin again, after 
 all? Horses did that sometimes. But at least he could 
 guide through this maze of perplexity till some surer 
 place was reached. She gave him a sign, and he moved 
 on, nimbly picking a way for his feet. 
 
 They entered a forest growth where weird branches let 
 the pale moon through in splashes and patches, and 
 grim moving figures seemed to chase them from every 
 shadowy tree-trunk. It was a terrible experience to the 
 girl. Sometimes she shut her eyes and held to the saddle, 
 that she might not see and be filled with this frenzy of 
 things, living or dead, following her. Sometimes a real 
 black shadow crept across the path, and slipped into the 
 engulfing darkness of the undergrowth to gleam with 
 yellow-lighted eyes upon the intruders. 
 
 But the forest did not last forever, and the moon was 
 not yet gone when they emerged presently upon the 
 rough mountain-side. The girl studied the moon then, 
 and saw by the way it was setting that after all they were 
 going in the right general direction. That gave a little 
 comfort until she made herself believe that in some way 
 she might have made a mistake and gone the wrong way 
 from the graves, and so be coming up to the cabin after all. 
 
 It was a terrible night. Every step of the way some
 
 28 THE GIRL FEOM MONTANA 
 
 new horror was presented to her imagination. Once she 
 had to cross a wild little stream, rocky and uncertain in 
 its bed, with slippery, precipitous banks; and twice in 
 climbing a steep incUne she came sharp upon sheer preci- 
 pices down into a rocky gorge, where the moonlight 
 seemed repelled by dark, bristling evergreen trees grow- 
 ing half-way up the sides. She could hear the rush and 
 clamor of a tumbling mountain stream in the depths 
 below. Once she fancied she heard a distant shot, and 
 the horse pricked up his ears, and went forward excitedly. 
 
 But at last the dawn contended with the night, and in 
 the east a faint pink flush crept up. Down in the valley 
 a mist like a white feather rose gently into a white cloud, 
 and obscured everything. She wished she might carry 
 the wall of white with her to shield her. She had longed 
 for the dawn; and now, as it came with sudden light and 
 clear revealing of the things about her, it was almost 
 worse than night, so dreadful were the dangers when 
 clearly seen, so dangerous the chasms, so angry the 
 mountain torrents. 
 
 With the dawn came the new terror of being followed. 
 The man would have no fear to come to her in the morn- 
 ing, for murdered men were not supposed to haunt their 
 homes after the sun was up, and murderers were always 
 courageous in the day. He might the sooner come, and 
 find her gone, and perhaps follow; for she felt that he was 
 not one easily to give up an object he coveted, and she 
 had seen in his evil face that which made her fear 
 unspeakably. 
 
 As the day grew clearer, she began to study the sur- 
 roundings. All seemed utter desolation. There was no 
 sign that any one had ever passed that way before; and 
 yet, just as she had thought that, the horse stopped and
 
 THE FLIGHT 29 
 
 snorted, and there in the rocks before them lay a man's 
 hat riddled with shot. Peering fearfully around, the 
 girl saw a sight which made her turn icy cold and begin 
 to tremble; for there, below them, as if he had fallen from 
 his horse and rolled down the incline, lay a man on his 
 face. 
 
 For the instant fear held her riveted, with the horse, 
 one figure like a statue, girl and beast; the next, sudden 
 panic took hold upon her. Whether the man were dead 
 or not, she must make haste. It might be he would come 
 to himself and pursue her, though there was that in the 
 rigid attitude of the figure down below that made her sure 
 he had been dead some time. But how had he died? 
 Scarcely by his own hand. Who had killed him? Were 
 there fiends lurking in the fastnesses of the mountain 
 growth above her? 
 
 With guarded motion she urged her horse forward, and 
 for miles beyond the horse scrambled breathlessly, the 
 girl holding on with shut eyes, not daring to look ahead 
 for fear of seeing more terrible sights, not daring to look 
 behind for fear of — what she did not know. 
 
 At last the way sloped downward, and they reached 
 more level ground, with wide stretches of open plain, 
 dotted here and there with sage-brush and greasewood. 
 
 She had been hungry back there before she came upon 
 the dead man; but now the hunger had gone from her, and 
 in its place was only faintness. Still, she dared not stop 
 long to eat. She must make as much time as possible 
 here in this open space, and now she was where she could 
 be seen more easily if any one were in pursuit. 
 
 But the horse had decided that it was time for break- 
 fast. He had had one or two drinks of water on the 
 mountain, but there had been no time for him to eat.
 
 30 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 He was decidedly hungry, and the plain offered nothing 
 in the shape of breakfast. He halted, lingered, and 
 came to a neighing stop, looking around at his mistress. 
 She roused from her lethargy of trouble, and realized that 
 his wants — if not her own — must be attended to. 
 
 She must sacrifice some of her own store of eatables, 
 for by and by they would come to a good grazing-place 
 perhaps, but now there was nothing. 
 
 The corn-meal seemed the best for the horse. She had 
 more of it than of anything else. She poured a scanty 
 portion out on a paper, and the beast smacked his lips 
 appreciatively over it, carefully licking every grain from 
 the paper, as the girl guarded it lest his breath should 
 blow any away. He snuffed hungrily at the empty paper, 
 and she gave him a little more meal, while she ate some of 
 the cold beans, and scanned the horizon anxiously. 
 There was nothing but sage-brush in sight ahead of her, 
 and more hills farther on where dim outlines of trees 
 could be seen. If she could but get up higher where 
 she could see farther, and perhaps reach a bench where 
 there would be grass and some shelter. 
 
 It was only a brief rest she allowed; and then, hastily 
 packing up her stores, and retaining some dry corn bread 
 and a few beans in her pocket, she mounted and rode on. 
 
 The morning grew hot, and the way was long. As the 
 ground rose again, it was stony and overgrown with cac- 
 tus. A great desolation took possession of the girl. She 
 felt as if she were in an endless flight from an unseen 
 pursuer, who would never give up until he had her. 
 
 It was high noon by the glaring sun when she suddenly 
 saw another human being. At first she was not quite 
 sure whether he were human. It was only a distant view 
 of a moving speck; but it was coming toward her, though
 
 THE FLIGHT 31 
 
 separated by a wide valley that had stretched already 
 for miles. He was moving along against the sky-line on 
 a high bench on one side of the valley, and she mounting 
 as fast as her weary beast would go to the top of another, 
 hoping to find a grassy stretch and a chance to rest. 
 
 But the sight of the moving speck startled her. She 
 watched it breathlessly as they neared each other. Could 
 it be a wild beast? No, it must be a horse and rider. A 
 moment later there came a puff of smoke as from a rifle 
 discharged, followed by the distant echo of the discharge. 
 It was a man, and he was yet a great way off. Should she 
 turn and flee before she was discovered? But where? 
 Should she go back? No, a thousand times, no! Her 
 enemy was there. This could not be the one from whom 
 she fled. He was coming from the opposite direction, 
 but he might be just as bad. Her experience taught her 
 that men were to be shunned. Even fathers and brothers 
 were terribly uncertain, sorrow-bringing creatures. 
 
 She could not go back to the place where the dead man 
 lay. She must not go back. And forward she was tak- 
 ing the only course that seemed at all possible through 
 the natural obstructions of the region. She shrank to 
 her saddle, and urged the patient horse on. Perhaps she 
 could reach the bench and get away out of sight before 
 the newcomer saw her. 
 
 But the way was longer to the top, and steeper than it 
 had seemed at first, and the horse was tired. Sometimes 
 he stopped of his own accord, and snorted appealingly 
 to her with his head turned inquiringly as if to know how 
 long and how far this strange ride was to continue. 
 Then the man in the distance seemed to ride faster. The 
 valley between them was not so wide here. He was 
 quite distinctly a man now, and his horse was going
 
 32 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 rapidly. Once it seemed as if he waved his arms; but she 
 turned her head, and urged her horse with sudden fright. 
 They were almost to the top now. She dismounted and 
 clambered alongside of the animal up the steep incline, 
 her breath coming in quick gasps, with the horse's breath 
 hot upon her cheek as they climbed together. 
 
 At last! They were at the top! Ten feet more and 
 they would be on a level, where they might disappear 
 from view. She turned to look across the valley, and the 
 man was directly opposite. He must have ridden hard 
 to get there so soon. Oh, horror! He was waving his 
 hands and calling. She could distinctly hear a cry! It 
 chilled her senses, and brought a frantic, unreasoning 
 fear. Somehow she felt he was connected with the one 
 from whom she fled. Some emissary of his sent out to 
 foil her in her attempt for safety, perhaps. 
 
 She clutched the bridle wildly, and urged the horse 
 up with one last effort; and just as they reached high 
 ground she heard the wild cry ring clear and distinct, 
 '^ Hello! Hello!" and then something else. It sounded 
 like *'Help!" but she could not tell. Was he trying to 
 deceive her? Pretending he would help her? 
 
 She flung herself into the saddle, giving the horse the 
 signal to run; and, as the animal obeyed and broke into 
 his prairie run, she cast one fearful glance behind her. 
 The man was pursuing her at a gallop! He was crossing 
 the valley. There was a stream to cross, but he would 
 cross it. He had determination in every line of his flying 
 figure. His voice was pursuing her, too. It seemed as if 
 the sound reached out and clutched her heart, and tried 
 to draw her back as she fled. And now her pursuers 
 were three: her enemy, the dead man upon the mountain, 
 and the voice.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE PURSUIT 
 
 Straight across the prairie she galloped, not daring to 
 stop for an instant, with the voice pursuing her. For 
 hours it seemed to ring in her ears, and even after she 
 was far beyond any possibiUty of hearing it she could not 
 be sure but there was now and then a faint echo of it 
 ringing yet, ''Hello I" — ringing like some strange bird 
 amid the silence of the world. 
 
 There were cattle and sheep grazing on the bench, and 
 the horse would fain have stopped to dine with them; 
 but the girl urged him on, seeming to make him under- 
 stand the danger that might be pursuing them. 
 
 It was hours before she dared stop for the much-needed 
 rest. Her brain had grown confused with the fright and 
 weariness. She felt that she could not much longer stay 
 in the saddle. She might fall asleep. The afternoon sun 
 would soon be slipping down behind the mountains. 
 When and where dared she rest? Not in the night, for 
 that would be almost certain death, with wild beasts 
 about. 
 
 A little group of greasewood offered a scanty shelter. 
 As if the beast understood her thoughts he stopped with 
 a neigh, and looked around at her. She scanned the sur- 
 roundings. There were cattle all about. They had 
 looked up curiously from their grazing as the horse flew 
 by, but were now going quietly on about their business. 
 They would serve as a screen if any should be still pursuing 
 
 33
 
 34 THE GIRL PROM MONTANA 
 
 her. One horse among the other animals in a landscape 
 would not be so noticeable as one alone against the sky. 
 The greasewood was not far from sloping ground where 
 she might easily flee for hiding if danger approached. 
 
 The horse had already begun to crop the tender grass 
 at his feet as if his life depended upon a good meal. The 
 girl took some more beans from the pack she carried, 
 and mechanically ate them, though she felt no appetite, 
 and her dry throat almost refused to swallow. She found 
 her eyes shutting even against her will; and in desperation 
 she folded the old coat into a pillow, and with the horse's 
 bridle fastened in her belt she lay down. 
 
 The sun went away; the horse ate his supper; and the 
 girl slept. By and by the horse drowsed off too, and the 
 bleating sheep in the distance, the lowing of the cattle, 
 the sound of night-birds, came now and again from the 
 distance; but still the girl slept on. The moon rose full 
 and round, shining with flickering light through the cot- 
 ton woods; and the girl stirred in a dream and thought 
 some one was pursuing her, but slept on again. Then 
 out through the night rang a vivid human voice, "Hello! 
 Hello!'' The horse roused from his sleep, and stamped 
 his feet nervously, twitching at his bridle; but the relaxed 
 hand that lay across the leather strap did not quicken, 
 and the girl slept on. The horse listened, and thought 
 he heard a sound good to his ear. He neighed, and 
 neighed again; but the girl slept on. 
 
 The first ray of the rising sun at last shot through the 
 gray of dawning, and touched the girl full in the face as 
 it slid under the branches of her sheltering tree. The 
 light brought her acutely to her senses. Before she 
 opened her eyes she seemed to be keenly and painfully 
 aware of much that had gone on during her sleep. With
 
 THE PURSUIT 35 
 
 another flash her eyes flew open. Not because she willed 
 it, but rather as if the springs that held the lids shut had 
 unexpectedly been touched and they sprang back because 
 they had to. 
 
 She shrank, as her eyes opened, from a new day, and 
 the. memory of the old one. Then before her she saw 
 something which kept her motionless, and almost froze 
 the blood in her veins. She could not stir nor breathe, 
 and for a moment even thought was paralyzed. There 
 before her but a few feet away stood a man! Beyond him, 
 a few feet from her own horse, stood his horse. She 
 could not see it without turning her head, and that she 
 dared not do; but she knew it was there, felt it even be- 
 fore she noticed the double stamping and breathing of 
 the animals. Her keen senses seemed to make the whole 
 surrounding landscape visible to her without the moving 
 of a muscle. She knew to a nicety exactly how her 
 weapons lay, and what movement would bring her hand 
 to the trigger of her pistol; yet she stirred not. 
 
 Gradually she grew calm enough to study the man 
 before her. He stood almost wuth his back turned toward 
 her, his face just half turned so that one cheek and a part 
 of his brow were visible. He was broad-shouldered and 
 well built. There was strength in every line of his body. 
 She felt how powerless she would be in his grasp. Her 
 only hope would be in taking him unaware. Yet she 
 moved not one atom. 
 
 He wore a brown flannel shirt, open at the throat, 
 brown leather belt and boots; in short, his whole costume 
 was in harmonious shades of brown, and looked new as if 
 it had been worn but a few days. His soft felt sombrero 
 was rolled back from his face, and the young red sun 
 tinged the short brown curls to a ruddy gold. He was
 
 36 THE GIRL FROM ^MONTANA 
 
 looking toward the rising sun. The gleam of it shot 
 across his brace of pistols in his belt, and flashed twin 
 rays into her eyes. Then all at once the man tm-ned and 
 looked at her. 
 
 Instantly the girl sprang to her feet, her hands upon 
 her pistol, her eyes meeting with calm, desperate defiance 
 the blue ones that were turned to her. She was braced 
 against a tree, and her senses were measuring the dis- 
 tance between her horse and herself, and deciding whether 
 escape were possible. 
 
 "Good morning," said the man politely. ''I hope I 
 haven't disturbed your nap." 
 
 The girl eyed him solemnly, and said nothing. This 
 was a new kind of man. He was not like the one from 
 whom she had fled, nor like any she had ever seen; but he 
 might be a great deal worse. She had heard that the 
 world was full of wickedness. 
 
 " You see," went on the man with an apologetic smile, 
 which lit up his eyes in a wonderfully winning way, ''you 
 led me such a desperate race nearly all day yesterday that 
 I was obliged to keep you in sight when I finally caught 
 you." 
 
 He looked for an answering smile, but there was none. 
 Instead, the girl's dark eyes grew wide and purple with 
 fear. He was the same one, then, that she had seen in 
 the afternoon, the voice who had cried to her; and he had 
 been pursuing her. He was an enemy, perhaps, sent by 
 the man from whom she fled. She grasped her pistol 
 with trembling fingers, and tried to think what to say or do. 
 
 The young man wondered at the formalities of the 
 plains. Were all these Western maidens so reticent? 
 
 '' Why did you follow me? Who did you think I was? '* 
 she asked breathlessly at last.
 
 THE PURSUIT 37 
 
 ''Well, I thought you were a man," he said; "at least, 
 you appeared to be a human being, and not a wild animal. 
 I hadn't seen anything but wild animals for six hours, 
 and very few of those; so I followed you." 
 
 The girl was silent. She was not reassured. It did 
 not seem to her that her question was directly answered. 
 The young man was playing with her. 
 
 ''What right had you to follow me?" she demanded 
 fiercely. 
 
 "Well, now that you put it in that light, I'm not sure 
 that I had any right at all, unless it may be the claim 
 that every human being has upon all creation." 
 
 His arms were folded now across his broad brown 
 flannel chest, and the pistols gleamed in his belt below 
 like fine ornaments. He wore a philosophical expression, 
 and looked at his companion as if she were a new speci- 
 men of the human kind, and he was studying her variety, 
 quite impersonally, it is true, but interestedly. There 
 was something in his look that angered the girl. 
 
 "What do you want?" She had never heard of the 
 divine claims of all the human family. Her one instinct 
 at present was fear. 
 
 An expression that was almost bitter flitted over the 
 young man's face, as of an unpleasant memory forgotten 
 for the instant. 
 
 "It really wasn't of much consequence when you think 
 of it," he said with a shrug of his fine shoulders. "I was 
 merely lost, and was wanting to inquire where I was — 
 and possibly the way to somewhere. But I don't know as 
 'twas worth the trouble." 
 
 The girl was puzzled. She had never seen a man like 
 this before. He was not like her wild, reckless brother, 
 nor any of his associates.
 
 38 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 ''This is Montana," she said, ''or was, when I started," 
 she added with sudden thought. 
 
 "Yes? Well, it was Montana when I started, too; 
 but it's as likely to be the Desert of Sahara as anything 
 else. I'm sure I've come far enough, and found it barren 
 enough." 
 
 "I never heard of that place," said the girl seriously; 
 "is it in Canada?" 
 
 "I believe not," said the man with sudden gravity; 
 "at least, not that I know of. When I went to school, 
 it was generally located somewhere in Africa." 
 
 '^ I never went to school," said the girl wistfully; 
 ''but — " with a sudden resolve — "I '11 go now." 
 
 "Do!" said the man. "I'll go with you. Let's start 
 at once; for, now that I think of it, I haven't had any- 
 thing to eat for over a day, and there might be some- 
 thing in that line near a schoolhouse. Do you know the 
 way?" 
 
 "No," said the girl, slowly studying him — she began 
 to feel he was making fun of her; "but I can give you 
 something to eat." 
 
 "Thank you!" said the man. "I assure you I shall 
 appreciate anything from hardtack to bisque ice-cream." 
 
 "I haven't any of those," said the girl, "but there are 
 plenty of beans left; and, if you will get some wood for a 
 fire, I'll make some coffee." 
 
 "Agreed," said the man. "That sounds better than 
 anything I've heard for forty-eight hours." 
 
 The girl watched him as he strode away to find wood, 
 and frowned for an instant; but his face was perfectly 
 sober, and she turned to the business of getting break- 
 fast. For a little her fears were allayed. At least, he 
 would do her no immediate harm. Of course she might
 
 THE PURSUIT 39 
 
 fly from him now while his back was turned; but then of 
 course he would pursue her again, and she had little 
 chance of getting away. Besides, he was hungry. She 
 could not leave him without something to eat. 
 
 *'We can't make coffee without water," she said as he 
 came back with a bundle of sticks. 
 
 He whistled. 
 
 "Could you inform me where to look for water?" he 
 asked. 
 
 She looked into his face, and saw how worn and gray 
 he was about his eyes; and a sudden compassion came 
 upon her. 
 
 "You'd better eat something first," she said, "and then 
 we'll go and hunt for water. There's sure to be some 
 in the valley. We'll cook some meat." 
 
 She took the sticks from him, and made the fire in a 
 businesslike way. He watched her, and wondered at her 
 grace. Who was she, and how had she wandered out into 
 this waste place? Her face was both beautiful and in- 
 teresting. She would make a fine study if he were not 
 so weary of all human nature, and especially woman. 
 He sighed as he thought again of himself. 
 
 The girl caught the sound, and, turning with the 
 quickness of a wild creature, caught the sadness in his 
 face. It seemed to drive away much of her fear and re- 
 sentment. A half-flicker of a smile came to her lips as 
 their eyes met. It seemed to recognize a comradeship 
 in sorrow. But her face hardened again almost at once 
 into disapproval as he answered her look. 
 
 The man felt a passing disappointment. After a 
 minute, during which the girl had dropped her eyes to 
 her work again, he said: "Now, why did you look at me 
 in that way? Ought I to be helping you in some way?
 
 40 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 I'm awkward, I know, but I can obey if you'll just tell 
 me how." 
 
 The girl seemed puzzled; then she replied almost 
 sullenly: 
 
 "There's nothing more to do. It's ready to eat." 
 
 She gave him a piece of the meat and the last of the 
 corn bread in the tin cup, and placed the pan of beans 
 beside him; but she did not attempt to eat anything her- 
 self. 
 
 He took a hungry bite or two, and looked furtively at her. 
 
 "I insist upon knowing why you looked — " he paused 
 and eyed her — ''why you look at me in that way. I'm 
 not a wolf if I am hungry, and I'm not going to eat you 
 up." 
 
 The look of displeasure deepened on the girl's brow. 
 In spite of his hunger the man was compelled to watch 
 her. She seemed to be looking at a flock of birds in the 
 sky. Her hand rested lightly at her belt. The birds were 
 coming towards them, flying almost over their heads. 
 
 Suddenly the girl's hand was raised with a quick motion, 
 and something gleamed in the sun across his sight. 
 There was a loud report, and one of the birds fell almost 
 at his feet, dead. It was a sage-hen. Then the girl 
 turned and walked towards him with as haughty a car- 
 riage as ever a society belle could boast. 
 
 " You were laughing at me," she said quietly. 
 
 It had all happened so suddenly that the man had not 
 time to think. Several distinct sensations of surprise 
 passed over his countenance. Then, as the meaning of 
 the girl's act dawned upon him, and the full intention of 
 her rebuke, the color mounted in his nice, tanned face. He 
 set down the tin cup, and balanced the bit of corn bread 
 on the rim, and arose.
 
 THE PURSUIT 41 
 
 ''I beg your pardon/' he said. "I never will do it 
 again. I couldn't have shot that bird to save my life," 
 and he touched it with the tip of his tan leather boot as if 
 to make sure it was a real bird. 
 
 The girl was sitting on the ground, indifferently eating 
 some of the cooked pork. She did not answer. Some- 
 how the young man felt uncomfortable. He sat down, 
 and took up his tin cup, and went at his breakfast again; 
 but his appetite seemed in abeyance. 
 
 "I've been trying myself to learn to shoot during the 
 last week," he began soberly. "I haven't been able yet 
 to hit anything but the side of a barn. Say, I'm wonder- 
 ing, suppose I had tried to shoot at those birds just now 
 and had missed, whether you wouldn't have laughed at me 
 — quietly, all to yourself, you know. Are you quite sure?" 
 
 The girl looked up at him solemnly without saying a 
 word for a full minute. 
 
 ''Was what I said as bad as that?" she asked slowly. 
 
 "I'm afraid it was," he answered thoughtfully; "but I 
 was a blamed idiot for laughing at you. A girl that 
 shoots like that may locate the Desert of Sahara in 
 Canada if she likes, and Canada ought to be proud of the 
 honor." 
 
 She looked into his face for an instant, and noted his 
 earnestness; and all at once she broke into a clear ripple 
 of laughter. The young man was astonished anew that 
 she had understood him enough to laugh. She must be 
 unusually keen-witted, this lady of the desert. 
 
 "If 'twas as bad as that," she said in quite another 
 tone, "you c'n laugh." 
 
 They looked at each other then in mutual under- 
 standing, and each fell to eating his portion in silence. 
 Suddenly the man spoke.
 
 42 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 "I am eating your food that you had prepared for your 
 journey, and I have not even said, 'Thank you' yet, nor 
 asked if you have enough to carry you to a place where 
 there is more. Where are you going?" 
 
 The girl did not answer at once; but, when she did, she 
 spoke thoughtfully, as if the words were a newly made 
 vow from an impulse just received. 
 
 ^'I am going to school," she said in her slow way, "to 
 learn to 'sight' the Desert of Sahara." 
 
 He looked at her, and his eyes gave her the homage he 
 felt was her due; but he said nothing. Here evidently 
 was an indomitable spirit, but how did she get out into 
 the wilderness? Where did she come from, and why 
 was she alone? He had heard of the freedom of Western 
 women, but surely such girls as this did not frequent so 
 vast a waste of uninhabited territory as his experience 
 led him to believe this was. He sat studying her. 
 
 The brow was sweet and thoughtful, with a certain 
 keen inquisitiveness about the eyes. The mouth was 
 firm; yet there were gentle lines of grace about it. In 
 spite of her coarse, dark calico garb, made in no particular 
 fashion except with an eye to covering with the least 
 possible fuss and trouble, she was graceful. Every 
 movement was alert and clean-cut. When she turned to 
 look full in his face, he decided that she had almost 
 beautiful eyes. 
 
 She had arisen while he was watching her, and seemed 
 to be looking off with sudden apprehension. He followed 
 her gaze, and saw several dark figures moving against the 
 sky. 
 
 "It's a herd of antelope," she said with relief; "but it's 
 time we hit the trail." She turned, and put her things 
 together with incredible swiftness, giving him very little
 
 THE PURSUIT 43 
 
 opportunity to help, and mounted her pony without more 
 words. 
 
 For an hour he followed her at high speed as she rode 
 full tilt over rough and smooth, casting furtive, anxious 
 glances behind her now and then, which only half included 
 him. She seemed to know that he was there and was 
 following; that was all. 
 
 The young man felt rather amused and flattered. He 
 reflected that most women he knew would have ridden 
 by his side, and tried to make him talk. But this girl 
 of the wilderness rode straight ahead as if her life de- 
 pended upon it. She seemed to have nothing to say to 
 him, and to be anxious neither to impart her own history 
 nor to know his. 
 
 Well, that suited his mood. He had come out into the 
 wilderness to think and to forget. Here was ample 
 opportunity. There had been a little too much of it 
 yesterday, when he wandered from the rest of his party 
 who had come out to hunt; and for a time he had felt that 
 he would rather be back in his native city with a good 
 breakfast and all his troubles than to be alone in the vast 
 waste forever. But now there was human company, 
 and a possibility of getting somewhere sometime. He 
 was content. 
 
 The lithe, slender figure of the girl ahead seemed one 
 with the horse it rode. He tried to think what this ride 
 would be if another woman he knew were riding on that 
 horse ahead, but there was very small satisfaction in that. 
 In the first place, it was highly improbable, and the 
 young man was of an intensely practical turn of mind. 
 It was impossible to imagine the haughty beauty in a 
 brown calico riding a high-spirited horse of the wilds. 
 There was but one parallel. If she had been there, she
 
 44 THE GIRL PROM MONTANA 
 
 would, in her present state of mind, likely be riding 
 imperiously and indifferently ahead instead of by his side 
 where he w^anted her. Besides, he came out to the plains 
 to forget her. Why think of her? 
 
 The sky was exceedingly bright and wide. Why had 
 he never noticed this wideness in skies at home? There 
 was another flock of birds. What if he should try to 
 shoot one? Idle talk. He would probably hit anything 
 but the birds. Why had that girl shot that bird, anyway? 
 Was it entirely because she might need it for food? She 
 had picked it up significantly wuth the other things, and 
 fastened it to her saddle-bow without a word. He was 
 too ignorant to know whether it was an edible bird or 
 not, or she was merely carrying it to remind him of her 
 skill. 
 
 And what sort of a girl was she? Perhaps she was 
 escaping from justice. She ran from him yesterday, and 
 apparently stopped only when utterly exhausted. She 
 seemed startled and anxious when the antelopes came into 
 sight. There was no knowing whether her company 
 meant safety, after all. Yet his interest was so thoroughly 
 aroused in her that he was willing to risk it. 
 
 Of course he might go more slowly and gradually, let 
 her get ahead, and he slip out of sight. It was not likely 
 he had wandered so many miles away from human habi- 
 tation but that he would reach one sometime; and, now 
 that he was re-enforced by food, perhaps it would be the 
 part of wisdom to part with this strange maiden. As he 
 thought, he unconsciously slackened his horse's pace. 
 The girl was a rod or more ahead, and just vanishing 
 behind a clump of sage-brush. She vanished, and he 
 stopped for an instant, and looked about him on the deso- 
 lation; and a great loneliness settled upon hitn like a
 
 THE PURSUIT 45 
 
 frenzy. He was glad to see the girl riding back toward 
 him with a smile of good fellowship on her face. 
 
 '' What's the matter?'' she called. ''Come on! There's 
 water in the valley." 
 
 The sound of water was good; and life seemed suddenly 
 good for no reason whatever but that the morning was 
 bright, and the sky was wide, and there was water in the 
 valley. He rode forward, keeping close beside her now, 
 and in a moment there gleamed below in the hot sunshine 
 the shining of a sparkling stream. 
 
 ''You seem to be running away from some one," he 
 explained. "I thought you wanted to get rid of me, 
 and I would give you a chance." 
 
 She looked at him surprised. 
 
 "I am running away," she said, "but not from you." 
 
 "From whom, then, may I ask? It might be conven- 
 ient to know, if we are to travel in the same company." 
 
 She looked at him keenly. 
 
 "Who are you, and where do you belong?"
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE TWO FUGITIVES 
 
 *'I'm not anybody in particular," he answered, ''and 
 I'm not just sure where I belong. I live in Pennsylvania, 
 but I didn't seem to belong there exactly, at least not just 
 now, and so I came out here to see if I belonged anywhere 
 else. I concluded yesterday that I didn't. At least, 
 not until I came in sight of you. But I suspect I am 
 running away myself. In fact, that is just what I am 
 doing, running away from a woman!" 
 
 He looked at her with his honest hazel eyes, and she 
 liked him. She felt he was telling her the truth, but it 
 seemed to be a truth he was just finding out for himself 
 as he talked. 
 
 "Why do you run away from a woman? How could 
 a woman hurt you? Can she shoot?" 
 
 He flashed her a look of amusement and pain mingled. 
 
 ''She uses other weapons," he said. "Her words are 
 darts, and her looks are swords." 
 
 "What a queer woman! Does she ride well?" 
 
 "Yes, in an automobile!" 
 
 "What is that?" She asked the question shyly as if 
 she feared he might laugh again; and he looked down, and 
 perceived that he was talking far above her. In fact, he 
 was talking to himself more than to the girl. 
 
 There was a bitter pleasure in speaking of his lost lady 
 to this wild creature who almost seemed of another kind, 
 more like an intelligent bird or flower. 
 
 46
 
 THE TWO FUGITIVES 47 
 
 *'An automobile is a carriage that moves about with- 
 out horses/' he answered her gravely. ''It moves by 
 machinery." 
 
 "I should not like it," said the girl decidedly. "Horses 
 are better than machines. I saw a machine once. It 
 was to cut wheat. It made a noise, and did not go fast. It 
 frightened me." 
 
 "But automobiles go very fast, faster than any horses. 
 And they do not all make a noise." 
 
 The girl looked around apprehensively. 
 
 "My horse can go very fast. You do not know how 
 fast. If you see her coming, I will change horses with 
 you. You must ride to the nearest bench and over, and 
 then turn backward on your tracks. She will never find 
 you that way. And I am not afraid of a woman." 
 
 The man broke into a hearty laugh, loud and long. 
 He laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks; and 
 the girl, offended, rode haughtily beside him. Then all 
 in a moment he grew quite grave. 
 
 "Excuse me," he said; "I am not laughing at you now, 
 though it looks that way. I am laughing out of the 
 bitterness of my soul at the picture you put before me. 
 Although I am running away from her, the lady will not 
 come out in her automobile to look for me. She does 
 not want me!" 
 
 "She does not want you! And yet you ran away 
 from her?" 
 
 "That's exactly it," he said. "You see, / wanted 
 her!'' 
 
 "Oh!" She gave a sharp, quick gasp of intelligence, 
 and was silent. After a full minute she rode quite close to 
 his horse, and laid her small brown hand on the animal's 
 mane.
 
 48 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 "I am sorry/' she said simply. 
 
 "Thank you," he answered. *'I'm sure I don't know 
 why I told you. I never told any one before." 
 
 There was a long silence between them. The man 
 seemed to have forgotten her as he rode with his eyes 
 upon his horse's neck, and his thoughts apparently far 
 away. 
 
 At last the girl said softly, as if she were rendering 
 return for the confidence given her, "I ran away from a 
 man." 
 
 The man lifted his eyes courteously, questioningly, 
 and waited. 
 
 "He is big and dark and handsome. He shoots to 
 kill. He killed my brother. I hate him. He wants me, 
 and I ran away from him. But he is a coward. I fright- 
 ened him away. He is afraid of dead men that he has 
 killed." 
 
 The young man gave his attention now to the extraor- 
 dinary story which the girl told as if it were a common 
 occurrence. 
 
 "But where are your people, your family and friends? 
 Why do they not send the man away?" 
 
 "They're all back there in the sand," she said with a 
 sad little flicker of a smile and a gesture that told of 
 tragedy. "I said the prayer over them. Mother always 
 wanted it when we died. There wasn't anybody left but 
 me. I said it, and then I came away. It was cold moon- 
 light, and there were noises. The horse was afraid. 
 But I said it. Do you suppose it will do any good?" 
 
 She fastened her eyes upon the young man with her 
 last words as if demanding an answer. The color came 
 up to his cheeks. He felt embarrassed at such a question 
 before her trouble.
 
 THE TWO FUGITIVES 49 
 
 ''Why, I should think it ought to," he stammered. 
 "Of course it will," he added with more confident com- 
 fort. 
 
 '' Did you ever say the prayer?" 
 
 " Why, — I — yes, I believe I have," he answered 
 somewhat uncertainly. 
 
 " Did it do any good?" She hung upon his words. 
 
 " Why, I — believe — yes, I suppose it did. That is, 
 praying is always a good thing. The fact is, it's a long 
 time since I've tried it. But of course it's all right." 
 
 A curious topic for conversation between a young man 
 and woman on a ride through the wilderness. The man 
 had never thought about prayer for so many minutes 
 consecutively in the whole of his life; at least, not since 
 the days when his nurse tried to teach him ''Now I lay 
 me." 
 
 "Why don't you try it about the lady?" asked the girl 
 suddenly. 
 
 "Well, the fact is, I never thought of it." 
 
 "Don't you believe it will do any good?" 
 
 "Well, I suppose it might." 
 
 "Then let's try it. Let's get off now, quick, and both 
 say it. Maybe it will help us both. Do you know it all 
 through? Can't you say it?" This last anxiously, as he 
 hesitated and looked doubtful. 
 
 The color came into the man's face. Somehow this 
 girl put him in a very bad light. He couldn't shoot; and, 
 if he couldn't pray, what would she think of him? 
 
 "Why, I think I could manage to say it with help," 
 he answered uneasily. "But what if that man should 
 suddenly appear on the scene?" 
 
 "You don't think the prayer is any good, or you 
 wouldn't say that." She said it sadly, hopelessly.
 
 50 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 "O, why, certainly/' he said, ''only I thought there 
 might be some better time to try it; but, if you say so, 
 we'll stop right here." He sprang to the ground, and 
 offered to assist her; but she was beside him before he 
 could get around his horse's head. 
 
 Down she dropped, and clasped her hands as a little 
 child might have done, and closed her eyes. 
 
 "Our Father," she repeated slowly, precisely, as if 
 every word belonged to a charm and must be repeated 
 just right or it would not work. The man's mumbling 
 words halted after hers. He was reflecting upon the 
 curious tableau they would make to the chance passer-by 
 on the desert if there were any passers-by. It was 
 strange, this aloneness. There was a wideness here that 
 made praying seem more natural than it would have been 
 at home in the open country. 
 
 The prayer, by reason of the unaccustomed lips, went 
 slowly; but, when it was finished, the girl sprang to her 
 saddle again with a businesslike expression. 
 
 ''I feel better," she said with a winning smile. "Don't 
 you? Don't you think He heard?" 
 
 "Who heard?" 
 
 "Why, 'our Father.'" 
 
 "0, certainly! That is, I've always been taught to 
 suppose He did. I haven't much experimental knowl- 
 edge in this line, but I dare say it'll do some good some- 
 where. Now do you suppose we could get some of that 
 very sparkling water? I feel exceedingly thirsty." 
 
 They spurred their horses, and were soon beside the 
 stream, refreshing themselves. 
 
 "Did you ride all night?" asked the girl. 
 
 "Pretty much," answered the man. "I stopped once 
 to rest a few minutes; but a sound in the distance stirred
 
 THE TWO FUGITIVES 51 
 
 me up again, and I was afraid to lose my chance of catch- 
 ing you, lest I should be hopelessly lost. You see, I went 
 out with a party hunting, and I sulked behind. They 
 went off up a steep climb, and I said I'd wander around 
 below till they got back, or perhaps ride back to camp; 
 but, when I tried to find the camp, it wasn't where I had 
 left it." 
 
 ''Well, you've got to lie down and sleep awhile," said 
 the girl decidedly. ''You can't keep going like that. 
 It'll kill you. You lie down, and I'll watch, and get 
 dinner. I'm going to cook that bird." 
 
 He demurred, but in the end she had her way; for he 
 was exceedingly weary, and she saw it. So he let her 
 spread the old coat down for him while he gathered some 
 wood for a fire, and then he lay down and watched her 
 simple preparations for the meal. Before he knew it he 
 was asleep. 
 
 When he came to himself, there was a curious blending 
 of dream and reality. He thought his lady was coming 
 to him across the rough plains in an automobile, with 
 gray wings like those of the bird the girl had shot, and 
 his prayer as he knelt in the sand was drawing her, while 
 overhead the air was full of a wild, sweet music from 
 strange birds that mocked and called and trilled. But, 
 when the automobile reached him and stopped, the lady 
 withered into a little, old, dried-up creature of ashes; 
 and the girl of the plains was sitting in her place radiant 
 and beautiful. 
 
 He opened his eyes, and saw the rude little dinner set, 
 and smelt the delicious odor of the roasted bird. The 
 girl was standing on the other side of the fire, gravely 
 whistling a most extraordinary song, like unto all the 
 birds of the air at once.
 
 52 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 She had made a little cake out of the corn-meal, and 
 they feasted royally. 
 
 ''I caught two fishes in the brook. We'll take them 
 along for supper," she said as they packed the things again 
 for starting. He tried to get her to take a rest also, and 
 let him watch; but she insisted that they must go on, and 
 promised to rest just before dark. 'Tor we must travel 
 hard at night, you know," she added fearfully. 
 
 He questioned her more about the man who might be 
 pursuing, and came to understand her fears. 
 
 ''The scoundrel!" he muttered, looking at the deHcate 
 features and clear, lovely profile of the girl. He felt a 
 strong desire to throttle the evil man. 
 
 He asked a good many questions about her life, and 
 was filled with wonder over the flower-like girl who seemed 
 to have blossomed in the wilderness with no hand to cul- 
 tivate her save a lazy, clever, drunken father, and a kind 
 but ignorant mother. How could she have escaped being 
 coarsened amid such surroundings. How was it, with 
 such brothers as she had, that she had come forth as 
 lovely and unhurt as she seemed? He somehow began to 
 feel a great anxiety for her lonely future and a desire to 
 put her in the way of protection. But at present they 
 were still in the wilderness; and he began to be glad that 
 he was here too, and might have the privilege of protecting 
 her now, if there should be need. 
 
 As it grew toward evening, they came upon a little 
 grassy spot in a coulee where the horses might rest and 
 eat. Here they stopped, and the girl threw herself under 
 a shelter of trees, with the old coat for a pillow, and 
 rested, while the man paced up and down at a distance, 
 gathering wood for a fire, and watching the horizon. As 
 night came on, the city-bred man longed for shelter. He
 
 THE TWO FUGITIVES 53 
 
 was by no means a coward where known quantities were 
 concerned, but to face wild animals and drunken brigands 
 in a strange, wild plain with no help near was anything 
 but an enlivening prospect. He could not understand 
 why they had not come upon some human habitation by 
 this time. He had never realized how vast this country 
 was before. When he came westward on the train he 
 did, not remember to have traversed such long stretches 
 of country without a sign of civilization, though of course 
 a train went so much faster than a horse that he had no 
 adequate means of judging. Then, besides, they were 
 on no trail now, and had probably gone in a most round- 
 about way to anywhere. In reality they had twice come 
 within five miles of little homesteads, tucked away be- 
 side a stream in a fertile spot; but they had not known it. 
 A mile further to the right at one spot would have put 
 them on the trail and made their way easier and shorter, 
 but that they could not know. 
 
 The girl did not rest long. She seemed to feel her pur- 
 suit more as the darkness crept on, and kept anxiously 
 looking for the moon. 
 
 " We must go toward the moon," she said as she watched 
 the bright spot coming in the east. 
 
 They ate their supper of fish and corn-bread with the 
 appetite that grows on horseback, and by the time they 
 had started on their way again the moon spread a path of 
 silver before them, and they went forward feeling as if 
 they had known each other a long time. For a while 
 their fears and hopes were blended in one. 
 
 Meantime, as the sun sank and the moon rose, a traveller 
 rode up the steep ascent to the little lonely cabin which 
 the girl had left. He was handsome and dark and strong, 
 with a scarlet kerchief knotted at his throat; and he rode
 
 54 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 slowly, cautiously, looking furtively about and ahead of 
 him. He was doubly armed, and his pistols gleamed in 
 the moonlight, while an ugly knife nestled keenly in a 
 secret sheath. 
 
 He was wricked, for the look upon his face was not good 
 to see; and he was a coward, for he started at the flutter 
 of a night-bird hurrying late to its home in a rock by the 
 wayside. The mist rising from the valley in wreaths of 
 silver gauze startled him again as he rounded the trail to 
 the cabin, and for an instant he stopped and drew his 
 dagger, thinking the ghost he feared w^as walking thus 
 early. A draught from the bottle he carried in his pocket 
 steadied his nerves, and he went on, but stopped again in 
 front of the cabin; for there stood another horse, and 
 there in the doorway stood a figure in the darkness! 
 His curses rang through the still air and smote the moon- 
 light. His pistol flashed forth a volley of fire to second 
 him. 
 
 In answer to his demand who was there came another 
 torrent of profanity. It was one of his comrades of the 
 day before. He explained that he and two others had 
 come up to pay a visit to the pretty girl. They had had 
 a wager as to who could win her, and they had come to 
 try; but she was not here. The door was fastened. 
 They had forced it. There w^as no sign of her about. 
 The other two had gone down to the place where her 
 brother was buried to see whether she was there. Women 
 were known to be sentimental. She might be that kind. 
 He had agreed to wait here, but he was getting uneasy. 
 Perhaps, if the other two found her, they might not be 
 fair. 
 
 The last comer with a mighty oath explained that the 
 girl belonged to him, and that no one had a right to her.
 
 THE TWO FUGITIVES 55 
 
 He demanded that the other come with him to the grave, 
 and see what had become of the girl; and then they would 
 all go and drink together — but the girl belonged to him. 
 
 They rode to the place of the graves, and met the two 
 others returning; but there was no sign of the girl, and 
 the three taunted the one, saying that the girl had given 
 him the slip. Amid much argument as to whose she was 
 and where she was, they rode on cursing through God's 
 beauty. They passed the bottle continually, that their 
 nerves might be the steadier; and, when they came to the 
 deserted cabin once more, they paused and discussed 
 what to do. 
 
 At last it was agreed that they should start on a quest 
 after her, and with oaths, and coarse jests, and drinking, 
 they started down the trail of which the girl had gone in 
 search by her roundabout way.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 A NIGHT RIDE 
 
 It was a wonderful night that the two spent wading the 
 sea of moonlight together on the plain. The almost un- 
 earthly beauty of the scene grew upon them. They had 
 none of the loneliness that had possessed each the nigh*^- 
 before, and might now discover all the wonders of the way. 
 
 Early in the way they came upon a prairie-dogs' village, 
 and the man would have lingered watching with curiosity, 
 had not the girl urged him on. It was the time of night 
 when she had started to run away, and the same appre- 
 hension that filled her then came upon her with the 
 evening. She longed to be out of the land which held 
 the man she feared. She would rather bury herself in the 
 earth and smother to death than be caught by him. 
 But, as they rode on, she told her companion much of the 
 habits of the curious little creatures they had seen; and 
 then, as the night settled down upon them, she pointed 
 out the dark, stealing creatures that slipped from their 
 way now and then, or gleamed with a fearsome green eye 
 from some temporary refuge. 
 
 At first the cold shivers kept running up and down the 
 young man as he realized that here before him in the 
 sage-brush was a real live animal about which he had 
 read so much, and which he had come out bravely to 
 hunt. He kept his hand upon his revolver, and was 
 constantly on the alert, nervously looking behind lest a 
 troop of coj^otes or wolves should be quietly stealing upon 
 
 56
 
 A NIGHT RIDE 57 
 
 him. But, as the girl talked fearlessly of them in much 
 the same way as we talk of a neighbor's fierce dog, he 
 grew gradually calmer, and was able to watch a dark, 
 velvet-footed moving object ahead without starting. 
 
 By and by he pointed to the heavens, and talked of the 
 stars. Did she know that constellation? No? Then he 
 explained. Such and such stars were so many miles 
 from the earth. He told their names, and a bit of my- 
 thology connected with the name, and then went on to 
 speak of the moon, and the possibility of its once having 
 been inhabited. 
 
 The girl listened amazed. She knew certain stars as 
 landmarks, telling east from west and north from south; 
 and she had often watched them one by one coming out, 
 and counted them her friends; but that they were worlds, 
 and that the inhabitants of this earth knew anything 
 whatever about the heavenly bodies, she had never heard. 
 Question after question she plied him with, some of them 
 showing extraordinary intelligence and thought, and 
 others showing deeper ignorance than a little child in our 
 kindergartens would show. 
 
 He wondered more and more as their talk went on. 
 He grew deeply interested in unfolding the wonders of the 
 heavens to her; and, as he studied her pure profile in the 
 moonlight with eager, searching, wistful gaze, her beauty 
 impressed him more and more. In the East the man 
 had a friend, an artist. He thought how wonderful a 
 theme for a painting this scene would make. The girl in 
 picturesque hat of soft felt, riding with careless ease and 
 grace; horse, maiden, plain, bathed in a sea of silver. 
 
 More and more as she talked the man wondered how 
 this girl reared in the wilds had acquired a speech so free 
 from grammatical errors. She was apparently deeply
 
 58 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 ignorant, and yet with a very few exceptions she made no 
 serious errors in English. How was it to be accounted 
 for? 
 
 He began to ply her with questions about herself, but 
 could not find that she had ever come into contact with 
 people who were educated. She had not even lived in any 
 of the miserable little towns that flourish in the wildest 
 of the West, and not within several hundred miles of a city. 
 Their nearest neighbors in one direction had been forty 
 miles away, she said, and said it as if that were an every- 
 day distance for a neighbor to live. 
 
 Mail? They had had a letter once that she could remem- 
 ber, when she was a little girl. It was just a few lines in 
 pencil to say that her mother's father had died. He had 
 been killed in an accident of some sort, working in the city 
 where he lived. Her mother had kept the letter and 
 cried over it till almost all the pencil marks were gone. 
 
 No, they had no mail on the mountain where their 
 homestead was. 
 
 Yes, her father went there first because he thought he 
 had discovered gold, but it turned out to be a mistake; 
 so, as they had no other place to go to, and no money to 
 go with, they had just stayed there; and her father and 
 brothers had been cow-punchers, but she and her mother 
 had scarcely ever gone away from home. There were 
 the little children to care for; and, when they died, her 
 mother did not care to go, and would not let her go far 
 alone. 
 
 O, yes, she had ridden a great deal, sometimes with her 
 brothers, but not often. They went with rough men, 
 and her mother felt afraid to have her go. The men all 
 drank. Her brothers drank. Her father drank too. 
 She stated it as if it were a sad fact common to all man-
 
 A NIGHT RIDE 59 
 
 kind, and ended with the statement which was almost, 
 not quite, a question, ''I guess you drink too." 
 
 "Well," said the young man hesitatingly, ''not that 
 way. I take a glass of wine now and then in company, 
 you know " 
 
 *'Yes, I know," sighed the girl. "Men are all alike. 
 Mother used to say so. She said men were different from 
 women. They had to drink. She said they all did it. 
 Only she said her father never did; but he was very good, 
 though he had to work hard." 
 
 "Indeed," said the young man, his color rising in the 
 moonlight, "indeed, you make a mistake. I don't drink 
 at all, not that way. I'm not like them. I — why, I 
 only — well, the fact is, I don't care a red cent about the 
 stuff anyway; and I don't want you to think I'm like 
 them. If it will do you any good, I'll never touch it 
 again, not a drop." 
 
 He said it earnestly. He was trying to vindicate him- 
 self. Just why he should care to do so he did not know, 
 only that all at once it was very necessary that he should 
 appear different in the eyes of this girl from the other men 
 she had known. 
 
 "Will you really?" she asked, turning to look in his 
 face. "Will you promise that?" 
 
 "Why, certainly I will," he said, a trifle embarrassed 
 that she had taken him at his word. "Of course I will. 
 I tell you it's nothing to me. I only took a glass at the 
 club occasionally when the other men were drinking, and 
 sometimes when I went to banquets, class banquets, you 
 know, and dinners " 
 
 Now the girl had never heard of class banquets, but to 
 take a glass occasionally when the other men were drink- 
 ing was what her brothers did; and so she sighed, and
 
 60 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 said: "Yes, you may promise, but I know you won^t keep 
 it. Father promised too; but, when he got with the other 
 men, it did no good. Men are all alike." 
 
 ''But I'm not," he insisted stoutly. "I tell you I'm 
 not. I don't drink, and I won't drink. I promise you 
 solemnly here under God's sky that I'll never drink 
 another drop of intoxicating liquor again if I know it as 
 long as I Uve." 
 
 He put out his hand toward her, and she put her own 
 into it with a quick grasp for just an instant. 
 
 "Then you're not like other men, after all," she said 
 with a glad ring in her voice. ''That must be why I 
 wasn't so very much afraid of you when I woke up and 
 found you standing there." 
 
 A distinct sense of pleasure came over him at her words. 
 Why it should make him glad that she had not been 
 afraid of him when she had first seen him in the wilder- 
 ness he did not know. He forgot all about his own 
 troubles. He forgot the lady in the automobile. Right 
 then and there he dropped her out of his thoughts. He 
 did not know it; but she was forgotten, and he did not 
 think about her any more during that journey. Some- 
 thing had erased her. He had run away from her, and 
 he had succeeded most effectually, more so than he knew. 
 
 There in the desert the man took his first temperance 
 pledge, urged thereto by a girl who had never heard of a 
 temperance pledge in her life, had never joined a woman's 
 temperance society, and knew nothing about women's 
 crusades. Her own heart had taught her out of a bitter 
 experience just how to use her God-given influence. 
 
 They came to a long stretch of level ground then, 
 smooth and hard ; and the horses as with common consent 
 set out to gallop shoulder to shoulder in a wild, exhilarat-
 
 A NIGHT RIDE 61 
 
 ing skim across the plain. Talking was impossible. The 
 man reflected that he was making great strides in experi- 
 ence, first a prayer and then a pledge, all in the wilderness. 
 If any one had told him he was going into the West for 
 this, he would have laughed him to scorn. 
 
 Towards morning they rode more slowly. Their horses 
 were growing jaded. They talked in lower tones as they 
 looked toward the east. It was as if they feared they 
 might waken some one too soon. There is something 
 awesome about the dawning of a new day, and especially 
 when one has been sailing a sea of silver all night. It is 
 like coming back from an unreal world into a sad, real one. 
 Each was almost sorry that the night was over. The new 
 day might hold so much of hardship or relief, so much of 
 trouble or surprise; and this night had been perfect, a 
 jewel cut to set in memory with every facet flashing to 
 the light. They did not like to get back to reality from 
 the converse they had held together. It was an experi- 
 ence for each which would never be forgotten. 
 
 Once there came the distant sound of shots and shouts. 
 The two shrank nearer each other, and the man laid his 
 strong hand protectingly on the mane of the girl's horse; 
 but he did not touch her hand. The lady of his thoughts 
 had sometimes let him hold her jewelled hand, and smiled 
 with drooping lashes when he fondled it; and, when she 
 had tired of him, other admirers might claim the same 
 privilege. But this woman of the wilderness — he would 
 not even in his thoughts presume to touch her little 
 brown, firm hand. Somehow she had commanded his 
 honor and respect from the first minute, even before she 
 shot the bird. 
 
 Once a bob-cat shot across their path but a few feet in 
 front of them, and later a kit-fox ran growling up with
 
 62 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 ruffled fur; but the girl's quick shot soon put it to flight, 
 and they passed on through the dawning morning of the 
 first real Sabbath day the girl had ever known. 
 
 *'It is Sunday morning at home/' said the man gravely 
 as he watched the sun lift its rosy head from the mist 
 of mountain and valley outspread before them. "Do 
 you have such an institution out here?'^ 
 
 The girl grew white about the lips. ''Awful things 
 happen on Sunday/' she said with a shudder. 
 
 He felt a great pity rising in his heart for her, and 
 strove to turn her thoughts in other directions. Evi- 
 dently there was a recent sorrow connected with the 
 Sabbath. 
 
 "You are tired/' said he, "and the horses are tired. 
 See! We ought to stop and rest. The daylight has come, 
 and nothing can hurt us. Here is a good place, and 
 sheltered. We can fasten the horses behind these bushes, 
 and no one will guess we are here." 
 
 She assented, and they dismounted. The man cut an 
 opening into a clump of thick growth with his knife, and 
 there they fastened the weary horses, well hidden from 
 sight if any one chanced that way. The girl lay down a 
 few feet away in a spot almost entirely surrounded by 
 sage-brush which had reached an unusual height and 
 made a fine hiding-place. Just outside the entrance of 
 this natural chamber the man lay down on a fragrant bed 
 of sage-brush. He had gathered enough for the girl first, 
 and spread out the old coat over it; and she had dropped 
 asleep almost as soon as she lay down. But, although 
 his own bed of sage-brush was tolerably comfortable, 
 even to one accustomed all his life to the finest springs 
 and hair mattress that money could buy, and although 
 the girl had insisted that he must rest too, for he was
 
 A NIGHT RIDE 63 
 
 weary and there was no need to watch, sleep would not 
 come to his eyelids. 
 
 He lay there resting and thinking. How strange was 
 the experience through which he was passing! Came 
 ever a wealthy, college-bred, society man into the like 
 before? What did it all mean? His being lost, his 
 wandering for a day, the sight of this girl and his pursuit, 
 the prayer under the open sky, and that night of splendor 
 under the moonlight riding side by side. It was like 
 some marvellous tale. 
 
 And this girl! Where was she going? What was to 
 become of her? Out in the world where he came from, 
 were they ever to reach it, she would be nothing. Her 
 station in life was beneath his so far that the only recog- 
 nition she could have would be one which would degrade 
 her. This solitary journey they were taking, how the 
 world would lift up its hands in horror at it ! A girl with- 
 out a chaperon! She was impossible! And yet it all 
 seemed right and good, and the girl was evidently recog- 
 nized by the angels; else how had she escaped from degra- 
 dation thus far? 
 
 Ah! How did he know she had? But he smiled at 
 that. No one could look into that pure, sweet face, and 
 doubt that she was as good as she was beautiful. If it 
 was not so, he hoped he would never find it out She 
 seemed to him a woman yet unspoiled, and he shrank 
 from the thought of what the world might do for her — 
 the world and its cultivation, which would not be for her, 
 because she was friendless and without money or home. 
 The world would have nothing but toil to give her, with 
 a meagre living. 
 
 Where was she going, and what was she proposing 
 to do? Must he not try to help her in some way? Did
 
 64 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 not the fact that she had saved his life demand so much 
 from him? If he had not found her, he must surely have 
 starved before he got out of this wild place. Even yet 
 starvation was not an impossibility; for they had not 
 reached any signs of habitation yet, and there was but 
 one more portion of corn-meal and a little coffee left. 
 They had but two matches now, and there had been no 
 more flights of birds, nor brooks with fishes. 
 
 In fact, the man found a great deal to worry about as 
 he lay there, too weary with the unaccustomed exercise 
 and experiences to sleep. 
 
 He reflected that the girl had told him very little, after 
 all, about her plans. He must ask her. He wished 
 he knew more of her family. If he were only older 
 and she younger, or if he had the right kind of a 
 woman friend to whom he might take her, or send her! 
 How horrible that that scoundrel was after her! Such 
 men were not men, but beasts, and should be shot 
 down. 
 
 Far off in the distance, it might have been in the air 
 or in his imagination, there sometimes floated a sound as 
 of faint voices or shouts; but they came and went, and he 
 listened, and by and by heard no more. The horses 
 breathed heavily behind their sage-brush stable, and the 
 sun rose higher and hotter. At last sleep came, troubled, 
 fitful, but sleep, oblivion. This time there was no lady 
 in an automobile. 
 
 It was high noon when he awoke, for the sun had 
 reached around the sage-brush, and was pouring full into 
 his face. He was very uncomfortable, and moreover an 
 uneasy sense of something, wrong pervaded his mind. 
 Had he, or had he not, heard a strange, low, sibilant, 
 writhing sound just as he came to consciousness? Why
 
 A NIGHT RIDE 65 
 
 did he feel that something, some one, had passed him but 
 a moment before? 
 
 He rubbed his eyes open, and fanned himself with his 
 hat. There was not a sound to be heard save a distant 
 hawk in the heavens, and the breathing of the horses. 
 He stepped over, and made sure that they were all right, 
 and then came back. Was the girl still sleeping? Should 
 he call her? But what should he call her? She had no 
 name to him as yet. He could not say, *' My dear madam '' 
 in the wilderness, nor yet '^mademoiselle." 
 
 Perhaps it was she who had passed him. Perhaps she 
 was looking about for water, or for fire-wood. He cast 
 his eyes about, but the thick growth of sage-brush every- 
 where prevented his seeing much. He stepped to the 
 right and then to the left of the little enclosure where she 
 had gone to sleep, but there was no sign of life. 
 
 At last the sense of uneasiness grew upon him until he 
 spoke. 
 
 *'Are you awake yet?" he ventured; but the words 
 somehow stuck in his throat, and would not sound out 
 clearly. He ventured the question again, but it seemed 
 to go no further than the gray-green foliage in front of 
 him. Did he catch an alert movement, the sound of 
 attention, alarm? Had he perhaps frightened her? 
 
 His flesh grew creepy, and he was angry with himself 
 that he stood here actually trembling and for no reason. 
 He felt that there was danger in the air. What could 
 it mean? He had never been a believer in premonitions 
 or superstitions of any kind. But the thought came to 
 him that perhaps that evil man had come softly while he 
 slept, and had stolen the girl away. Then all at once a 
 horror seized him, and he made up his mind to end this 
 suspense and venture in to see whether she were safe.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 A CHRISTIAN ENDEAVOR MEETING IN THE WILDERNESS 
 
 He stepped boldly around the green barrier, and his 
 first glance told him she was lying there still asleep; but 
 the consciousness of another presence held him from 
 going away. There, coiled on the ground with venomous 
 fangs extended and eyes glittering like slimy jewels, was 
 a rattlesnake, close beside her. 
 
 For a second he gazed with a kind of fascinated horror, 
 and his brain refused to act. Then he knew he must do 
 something, and at once. He had read of serpents and 
 travellers' encounters with them, but no memory of what 
 was to be done under such circumstances came. Shoot? 
 He dared not. He would be more likely to kill the girl 
 than the serpent, and in any event would precipitate the 
 calamity. Neither was there any way to awaken the girl 
 and drag her from peril, for the slightest movement upon 
 her part would bring the poisoned fangs upon her. 
 
 He cast his eyes about for some weapon, but there was 
 not a stick or a stone in sight. He was a good golf-player; 
 if he had a loaded stick, he could easily take the serpent's 
 head off, he thought; but there was no stick. There was 
 only one hope, he felt, and that would be to attract the 
 creature to himself; and he hardly dared move lest the 
 fascinated gaze should close upon the victim as she lay 
 there sweetly sleeping, unaware of her new peril. 
 
 Suddenly he knew what to do. Silently he stepped 
 back out of sight, tore off his coat, and then cautiously 
 
 66
 
 CHRISTIAN ENDEAVOR MEETING IN WILDERNESS 67 
 
 approached the snake again, holding the coat up before 
 him. There was an instant's pause when he calculated 
 whether the coat could drop between the snake and the 
 smooth brown arm in front before the terrible fangs 
 would get there; and then the coat dropped, the man 
 bravely holding one end of it as a wall between the ser- 
 pent and the girl, crying to her in an agony of frenzy to 
 awaken and run. 
 
 There was a terrible moment in which he realized that 
 the girl was saved and he himself was in peril of death, 
 while he held to the coat till the girl was on her feet in 
 safety. Then he saw the writhing coil at his feet turn 
 and fasten its eyes of fury upon him. He was conscious 
 of being uncertain whether his fingers could let go the 
 coat, and whether his trembling knees could carry him 
 away before the serpent struck; then it was all over, and 
 he and the girl were standing outside the sage-brush, with 
 the sound of the pistol dying away among the echoes, 
 and the fine ache of his arm where her fingers had grasped 
 him to drag him from danger. 
 
 The serpent was dead. She had shot it. She took 
 that as coolly as she had taken the bird in its flight. But 
 she stood looking at him with great eyes of gratitude, 
 and he looked at her amazed that they were both alive, 
 and scarcely understanding all that had happened. 
 
 The girl broke the stillness. 
 
 "You are what they call a 'tenderfoot,'" she said sig- 
 nificantly. 
 
 "Yes," he assented humbly, "I guess I am. I couldn't 
 have shot it to save anybody's life." 
 
 "You are a tenderfoot, and you couldn't shoot," she 
 continued eulogistically, as if it were necessary to have 
 it all stated plainly, " but you — you are what my brother
 
 68 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 used to call 'sl white man/ You couldn't shoot; but you 
 could risk your life, and hold that coat, and look death 
 in the face. You are no tenderfoot." 
 
 There was eloquence in her eyes, and in her voice there 
 were tears. She turned away to hide if any were in her 
 eyes. But the man put out his hand on her sure little 
 brown one, and took it firmly in his own, looking down 
 upon her with his own eyes filled with tears of which he 
 was not ashamed. 
 
 "And what am I to say to you for saving my life?" he 
 said. 
 
 "I? O, that was easy," said the girl, rousing to the 
 commonplace. "I can always shoot. Only you were 
 hard to drag away. You seemed to want to stay there 
 and die with your coat." 
 
 "They laughed at me for wearing that coat when we 
 started away. They said a hunter never bothered him- 
 self with extra clothing," he mused as they walked away 
 from the terrible spot. 
 
 "Do you think it was the prayer?" asked the girl sud- 
 denly. 
 
 "It may be!" said the man with wondering accent. 
 
 Then quietly, thoughtfully, they mounted and rode 
 onward. 
 
 Their way, due east, led them around the shoulder of a 
 hill. It was tolerably smooth, but they were obliged to 
 go single file, so there was very little talking done. 
 
 It was nearly the middle of the afternoon when all at 
 once a sound reached them from below, a sound so new 
 that it was startling. They stopped their horses, and 
 looked at each other. It was the faint sound of singing 
 wafted on the light breeze, singing that came in whiffs 
 like a perfume, and then died out . Cautiously they guided
 
 CHRISTIAN ENDEAVOR MEETING IN WILDERNESS 69 
 
 their horses on around the hill, keeping close together 
 now. It was plain they were approaching some human 
 being or beings. No bird could sing like that. There 
 were indistinct words to the music. 
 
 They rounded the hillside, and stopped again side by 
 side. There below them lay the trail for which they had 
 been searching, and just beneath them, nestled against 
 the hill, was a little schoolhouse of logs, weather-boarded., 
 its windows open; and behind it and around it were 
 horses tied, some of them hitched to wagons, but most 
 of them with saddles. 
 
 The singing was clear and distinct now. They could 
 hear the words. *'0, that will be glory for me, glory for 
 me, glory for me " 
 
 "What is it?" she whispered. 
 
 ^'Why, I suspect it is a Sunday school or something 
 of the kind." 
 
 "O! A school! Could we go in?" 
 
 "If you like," said the man, enjoying her simplicity. 
 "We can tie our horses here behind the building, and they 
 can rest. There is fresh grass in this sheltered place; 
 see?" 
 
 He led her down behind the schoolhouse to a spot where 
 the horses could not be seen from the trail. The girl 
 peered curiously around the corner into the window. 
 There sat two young girls about her own age, and one of 
 them smiled at her. It seemed an invitation. She smiled 
 back, and went on to the doorway reassured. When she 
 entered the room, she found them pointing to a seat near 
 a window, behind a small desk. 
 
 There were desks all over the room at regular intervals, 
 and a larger desk up in front. Almost all the people sat 
 at desks.
 
 70 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 There was a curious wooden box in front at one side of 
 the big desk, and a girl sat before it pushing down some 
 black and white strips that looked like sticks, and making 
 her feet go, and singing with all her might. The curious 
 box made music, the same music the people were sing- 
 ing. Was it a piano? she wondered. She had heard of 
 pianos. Her father used to talk about them. O, and 
 what was that her mother used to want? A "cab'net- 
 organ." Perhaps this was a cab'net-organ. At any rate, 
 she was entranced with the music. 
 
 Up behind the man who sat at the big desk was a large 
 board painted black with some white marks on it. The 
 sunlight glinted across it, and she could not tell what 
 they were; but, when she moved a little, she saw quite 
 clearly it was a large cross with words underneath it — 
 ^'He will hide me.^' 
 
 It was a strange place. The girl looked around shyly, 
 and felt submerged in the volume of song that rolled 
 around her, from voices untrained, perhaps, but hearts 
 that knew whereof they sang. To her it was heavenly 
 music, if she had the least conception of what such 
 music was like. *' Glory," ''glory," ''glory!" The words 
 seemed to fit the day, and the sunshine, and the deliver- 
 ance that had come to her so recently. She looked 
 around for her companion and deliverer to enjoy it with 
 him, but he had not come in yet. 
 
 The two girls were handing her a book now and point- 
 ing to the place. She could read. Her mother had taught 
 her just a little before the other children were born, but 
 not much in the way of literature had ever come in her 
 way. She grasped the book eagerly, hungrily, and 
 looked where the finger pointed. Yes, there were the 
 words. "Glory for me!" "Glory for me!" Did that
 
 CHRISTIAN ENDEAVOR MEETING IN WILDERNESS 71 
 
 mean her? Was there glory for her anywhere in the 
 world? She sighed with the joy of the possibility, as the 
 ''Glory Song" rolled along, led by the enthusiasm of 
 one who had recently come from a big city where it had 
 been sung in a great revival service. Some kind friend 
 had given some copies of a leaflet containing it and a few 
 other new songs to this little handful of Christians, and they 
 were singing them as if they had been a thousand strong. 
 
 The singing ceased and the man at the big desk said, 
 ''Let us have the verses." 
 
 "'The eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath are 
 the everlasting arms,' " said a careworn woman in the 
 front seat. 
 
 "'He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his 
 wings shalt thou trust,'" said a young man next. 
 
 " ' In the time of trouble he shall hide me in his pavilion; 
 in the secret of his tabernacle shall he hide me,' " read the 
 girl who had handed the book. The slip of paper she had 
 written it on fluttered to the floor at the feet of the 
 stranger, and the stranger stooped and picked it up, 
 offering it back; but the other girl shook her head, and 
 the stranger kept it, looking wonderingly at the words, 
 trying to puzzle out a meaning. 
 
 There were other verses repeated, but just then a sound 
 smote upon the girl's ear which deadened all others. In 
 spite of herself she began to tremble. Even her lips 
 seemed to her to move with the weakness of her fear. 
 She looked up, and the man was just coming toward the 
 door; but her eyes grew dizzy, and a faint ness seemed to 
 come over her. 
 
 Up the trail on horseback, with shouts and ribald 
 songs, rode four rough men, too drunk to know where 
 they were going. The little schoolhouse seemed to attract
 
 72 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 their attention as they passed, and just for deviltry they 
 shouted out a volley of oaths and vile talk to the wor- 
 shippers within. One in particular, the leader, looked 
 straight into the face of the young man as he returned 
 from fastening the horses and was about to enter the 
 schoolhouse, and pretended to point his pistol at him, 
 discharging it immediately into the air. This was the 
 signal for some wild firing as the men rode on past the 
 schoolhouse, leaving a train of curses behind them to 
 haunt the air and struggle with the "Glory Song" in the 
 memories of those who heard. 
 
 The girl looked out from her seat beside the window, 
 and saw the evil face of the man from whom she had fled. 
 She thought for a terrible minute, which seemed ages 
 long to her, that she was cornered now. She began to 
 look about on the people there helplessly, and wonder 
 whether they would save her, would help her, in her time 
 of need. Would they be able to fight and prevail against 
 those four terrible men mad with liquor? 
 
 Suppose he said she was his — his wife, perhaps, or 
 sister, who had run away. What could they do? Would 
 they believe her? Would the man who had saved her life 
 a few minutes ago believe her? Would anybody help 
 her? 
 
 The party passed, and the man came in and sat down 
 beside her quietly enough; but without a word or a look 
 he knew at once who the man was he had just seen. His 
 soul trembled for the girl, and his anger rose hot. He 
 felt that a man like that ought to be wiped off the face of 
 the earth in some way, or placed in solitary confinement 
 the rest of his life. 
 
 He looked down at the girl, trembling, brave, white, 
 beside him; and he felt like gathering her in his arms and
 
 CHRISTIAN ENDEAVOR MEETING IN WILDERNESS 73 
 
 hiding her himself, such a frail, brave, courageous little 
 soul she seemed. But the calm nerve with which she had 
 shot the serpent was gone now. He saw she was trem- 
 bling and ready to cry. Then he smiled upon her, a smile 
 the like of which he had never given to human being 
 before; at least, not since he was a tiny baby and smiled 
 confidingly into his mother's face. Something in that 
 smile was like sunshine to a nervous chill. 
 
 The girl felt the comfort of it, though she still trembled. 
 Down her eyes drooped to the paper in her shaking 
 hands. Then gradually, letter by letter, word by word, 
 the verse spoke to her. Not all the meaning she gathered, 
 for *' pavilion" and "tabernacle'' were unknown words 
 to her, but the hiding she could understand. She had 
 been hidden in her time of trouble. Some one had done 
 it. "He" — the word would fit the man by her side, 
 for he had helped to hide her, and to save her more than 
 once; but just now there came a dim perception that it 
 was some other He, some One greater who had worked 
 this miracle and saved her once more to go on perhaps 
 to better things. 
 
 There were many things said in that meeting, good 
 and wise and true. They might have been helpful to the 
 girl if she had understood, but her thoughts had much to 
 do. One grain of truth she had gathered for her future 
 use. There was a " hiding" somewhere in this world, and 
 she had had it in a time of trouble. One moment more 
 out upon the open, and the terrible man might have seen 
 her. 
 
 There came a time of prayer in which all heads were 
 bowed, and a voice here and there murmured a few soft 
 little words which she did not comprehend; but at the 
 close they all joined in "the prayer"; and, when she
 
 74 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 heard the words, "Our Father," she closed her eyes, 
 which had been curiously open and watching, and joined 
 her voice softly with the rest. Somehow it seemed to 
 connect her safety with "our Father," and she felt a 
 stronger faith than ever in her prayer. 
 
 The young man listened intently to all he heard. 
 There was something strangely impressive to him in this 
 simple worship out in what to him was a vast wilderness. 
 He felt more of the true spirit of worship than he had 
 ever felt at home sitting in the handsomely upholstered 
 pew beside his mother and sister while the choir-boys 
 chanted the processional and the light filtered through 
 costly windows of many colors over the large and cul- 
 tivated congregation. There was something about the 
 words of these people that went straight to the heart more 
 than all the intonings of the cultured voices he had ever 
 heard. Truly they meant what they said', and God had 
 been a reality to them in many a time of trouble. That 
 seemed to be the theme of the afternoon, the saving 
 power of the eternal God, made perfect through the need 
 and the trust of His people. He was reminded more than 
 once of the incident of the morning and the miraculous- 
 saving of his own and his companion's life. 
 
 When the meeting was over, the people gathered in 
 groups and talked with one another. The girl who had 
 handed the book came over and spoke to the strangers, 
 putting out her hand pleasantly. She was the mission- 
 ary's daughter. 
 
 "What is this? School?" asked the stranger eagerly. 
 
 "Yes, this is the schoolhouse," said the missionary's 
 daughter; "but this meeting is Christian Endeavor. Do 
 you live near here? Can't you come every time?" 
 
 "No, I hve a long way off," said the girl sadly. "That
 
 CHRISTIAN ENDEAVOR MEETING IN WILDERNESS 75 
 
 is, I did. I don't live anywhere now. I'm going 
 away." 
 
 '^I wish you lived here. Then you could come to our 
 meeting. Did you have a Christian Endeavor where 
 you lived?" 
 
 "No. I never saw one before. It's nice. I like it." 
 
 Another girl came up now, and put out her hand in 
 greeting. ''You must come again," she said politely. 
 
 "I don't know," said the visitor. ''I sha'n't be coming 
 back soon." 
 
 ''Are you going far?" 
 
 *'As far as I can. I'm going East." 
 
 "0," said the inquisitor; and then, seeing the mission- 
 ary's daughter was talking to some one else, she whispered, 
 nodding toward the man, "Is he your husband?" 
 
 The girl looked startled, while a slow color mounted 
 into her cheeks. 
 
 "No," said she gravely, thoughtfully. "But — he 
 saved my life a little while ago." 
 
 "Oh!" said the other, awestruck. "My! And ain't 
 he handsome? How did he do it?" 
 
 But the girl could not talk about it. She shuddered. 
 
 "It was a dreadful snake," she said, "and I was — 
 I didn't see it. It was awful! I can't tell you about it." 
 
 "My!" said the girl. "How terrible!" 
 
 The people were passing out now. The man was talk- 
 ing with the missionary, asking the road to somewhere. 
 The girl suddenly realized that this hour of preciousness 
 was over, and life was to be faced again. Those men, 
 those terrible men! She had recognized the others as 
 having been among her brother's funeral train. Where 
 were they, and why had they gone that way? Were they 
 on her track? Had they any clue to her whereabouts?
 
 76 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 Would they turn back pretty soon, and catch her when 
 the people were gone home? 
 
 It appeared that the nearest town was Malta, sixteen 
 miles away, down in the direction where the party of men 
 had passed. There were only four houses near the 
 schoolhouse, and they were scattered in different direc- 
 tions along the stream in the valley. The two stood still 
 near the door after the congregation had scattered. The 
 girl suddenly shivered. As she looked down the road, 
 she seemed again to see the coarse face of the man she 
 feared, and to hear his loud laughter and oaths. What 
 if he should come back again? *'I cannot go that way!" 
 she said, pointing down the trail toward Malta. " I would 
 rather die with wild beasts." 
 
 **No!" said the man with decision. ''On no account 
 can we go that way. Was that the man you ran away 
 from?" 
 
 **Yes." She looked up at him, her eyes filled with 
 wonder over the way in which he had coupled his lot 
 with hers. 
 
 "Poor little girl!" he said with deep feeling. ''You 
 would be better off with the beasts. Come, let us hurry 
 away from here!" 
 
 They turned sharply away from the trail, and followed 
 down behind a family who were almost out of sight 
 around the hill. There would be a chance of getting 
 some provisions, the man thought. The girl thought 
 of nothing except to get away. They rode hard, and 
 soon came within hailing-distance of the people ahead of 
 them, and asked a few questions. 
 
 No, there were no houses to the north until you were 
 over the Canadian line, and the trail was hard to follow. 
 Few people went that way. Most went down to Malta.
 
 CHRISTIAN ENDEAVOR MEETING IN WILDERNESS 77 
 
 Why didn't they go to Malta? There was a road there, 
 and stores. It was by all means the best way. Yes, 
 there was another house about twenty miles away on 
 this trail. It was a large ranch, and was near to another 
 town that had a railroad. The people seldom came this 
 way, as there were other places more accessible to them. 
 The trail was little used, and might be hard to find in 
 some places; but, if they kept the Cottonwood Creek in 
 sight, and followed on to the end of the valley, and then 
 crossed the bench to the right, they would be in sight of 
 it, and couldn't miss it. It was a good twenty miles 
 beyond their house; but, if the travellers didn't miss the 
 way, they might reach it before dark. Yes, the people 
 could supply a few provisions at their house if the strangers 
 didn't mind taking what was at hand. 
 
 The man in the wagon tried his best to find out where 
 the two were going and what they were going for; but the 
 man from the East baffled his curiosity in a most dex- 
 terous manner, so that, when the two rode away from the 
 two-roomed log house where the kind-hearted people 
 lived, they left no clue to their identity or mission beyond 
 the fact that they were going quite a journey, and had 
 got a little off their trail and run out of provisions. 
 
 They felt comparatively safe from pursuit for a few 
 hours at least, for the men could scarcely return and trace 
 them very soon. They had not stopped to eat anything; 
 but all the milk they could drink had been given to them, 
 and its refreshing strength was racing through their veins. 
 They started upon their long ride with the pleasure of 
 their companionship strong upon them. 
 
 " Whatwasit all about? "asked the girl as they settled into 
 a steady gait after a long gallop across a smooth level place. 
 
 He looked at her questioningly.
 
 78 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 "The school. What did it mean? She said it was a 
 Christian Endeavor. What is that?" 
 
 '*Why, some sort of a religious meeting, or something 
 of that kind, I suppose," he answered lamely. "Did you 
 enjoy it?" 
 
 "Yes," she answered solemnly, "I liked it. I never 
 went to such a thing before. The girl said they had one 
 everywhere all over the world. What do you think she 
 meant?" 
 
 "Why, I don't know, I'm sure, unless it's some Mad 
 of a society. But it looked to me like a prayer meeting. 
 I've heard about prayer meetings, but I never went to 
 one, though I never supposed they were so interesting. 
 That was a remarkable story that old man told of how he 
 was taken care of that night among the Indians. He 
 evidently believes that prayer helps people." 
 
 "Don't you?" she asked quickly. 
 
 "O, certainly!" he said, "but there was something so 
 genuine about the way the old man told it that it made 
 you feel it in a new way." 
 
 " It is all new to me," said the girl. " But mother used 
 to go to Sunday school and church and prayer meeting. 
 She's often told me about it. She used to sing sometimes. 
 One song was 'Rock of Ages.' Did you ever hear that? 
 
 ' Rock of Ages, cleft for me, 
 Let me hide myself in Thee.' " 
 She said it slowly and in a singsong voice, as if she were 
 measuring the words off to imaginary notes. " I thought 
 about that the night I started. I wished I knew where 
 that rock was. Is there a rock anywhere that they call 
 the Rock of Ages?" 
 
 The young man was visibly embarrassed. He wanted 
 to laugh, but he would not hurt her in that way again.
 
 CHRISTIAN ENDEAVOR MEETING IN WILDERNESS 79 
 
 He was not accustomed to talking religion; yet here by 
 this strange girl's side it seemed perfectly natural that he, 
 who knew so very little experimentally himself about it, 
 should be trying to explain the Rock of Ages to a soul in 
 need. All at once it flashed upon him that it was for just 
 such souls in need as this one that the Rock of Ages came 
 into the world. 
 
 ''I've heard the song. Yes, I think they sing it in all 
 churches. It's quite common. No, there isn't any place 
 called Rock of Ages. It refers — that is, I believe — why, 
 you see the thing is figurative — that is, a kind of picture 
 of things. It refers to the Deity." 
 
 ''0! Who is that?" asked the girl. 
 
 ''Why — God." He tried to say it as if he had been 
 telling her it was Mr. Smith or Mr. Jones, but somehow 
 the sound of the word on his lips thus shocked him. He 
 did not know how to go on. "It just means God will 
 take care of people." 
 
 "0!" she said, and this time a light of understanding 
 broke over her face. "But," she added, "I wish I knew 
 what it meant, the meeting, and why they did it. There 
 must be some reason. They wouldn't do it for nothing. 
 And how do they know it's all so? Where did they find 
 it out?" 
 
 The man felt he was beyond his depth; so he sought 
 to change the subject. "I wish you would tell me about 
 yourself," he said gently. "I should like to understand 
 you better. We have travelled together for a good many 
 hours now, and we ought to know more about each other." 
 
 "What do you want to know?" She asked it gravely. 
 "There isn't much to tell but what I've told you. I've 
 lived on a mountain all my life, and helped mother. The 
 rest all died. The baby first, and my two brothers, and
 
 80 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 father, and mother, and then John. I said the prayer 
 for John, and ran away." 
 
 ** Yes, but I want to know about your life. You know 
 I live in the East where everything is different. It's all 
 new to me out here. I want to know, for instance, how 
 you came to talk so well. You don't talk like a girl that 
 never went to school. You speak as if you had read and 
 studied. You make so few mistakes in your English. 
 You speak quite correctly. That is not usual, I believe, 
 when people have lived all their lives away from school, 
 you know. You don't talk like the girls I have met since 
 I came out here." 
 
 ' 'Father always made me speak right. He kept at 
 every one of us children when we said a word wrong, and 
 made us say it over again. It made him angry to hear 
 words said wrong. He made mother cry once when she 
 said 'done' when she ought to have said 'did.' Father 
 went to school once, but mother only went a little while. 
 Father knew a great deal, and when he was sober he used 
 to teach us things once in a while. He taught me to read. 
 I can read anything I ever saw." 
 
 "Did you have many books and magazines?" he asked 
 innocently. 
 
 "We had three books!" she answered proudly, as if that 
 were a great many. "One was a grammar. Father 
 bought it for mother before they were married, and she 
 always kept it wrapped up in paper carefully. She used 
 to get it out for me to read in sometimes; but she was very 
 careful with it, and when she died I put it in her hands. 
 I thought she would like to have it close to her, because 
 it always seemed so much to her. You see father bought 
 it. Then there was an almanac, and a book about stones 
 and earth. A man who was hunting for gold left that.
 
 CHRISTIAN ENDEAVOR MEETING IN WILDERNESS 81 
 
 He stopped over night at our house, and asked for some- 
 thing to eat. He hadn't any money to pay for it; so he 
 left that book with us, and said when he found the gold 
 he would come and buy it back again. But he never 
 came back." 
 
 "Is that all that you have ever read?" he asked com- 
 passionately. 
 
 "O, no! We got papers sometimes. Father would 
 come home with a whole paper wrapped around some 
 bundle. Once there was a beautiful story about a girl; 
 but the paper was torn in the middle, and I never knew 
 how it came out." 
 
 There was great wistfulness in her voice. It seemed to 
 be one of the regrets of her girlhood that she did not 
 know how that other girl in the story fared. All at once 
 she turned to him. 
 
 " Now tell me about your life," she said. *' I'm sure you 
 have a great deal to tell." 
 
 His face darkened in a way that made her sorry. 
 
 "O, well," said he as if it mattered very little about his 
 life, "I had a nice home — have yet, for the matter of 
 that. Father died when I was little, and mother let me 
 do just about as I pleased. I went to school because the 
 other fellows did, and because that was the thing to do. 
 After I grew up I liked it. That is, I liked some studies; 
 so I went to a university." 
 
 ''What is that?" 
 
 ''O, just a higher school where you learn grown-up 
 things. Then I travelled. When I came home, I went 
 into society a good deal. But" — and his face darkened 
 again — ''I got tired of it all, and thought I would come 
 out here for a while and hunt, and I got lost, and I found 
 you!" He smiled into her face. ''Now you know the rest."
 
 82 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 Something passed between them in that smile and 
 glance, a flash of the recognition of souls, and a gladness 
 in each other's company, that made the heart warm. 
 They said no more for some time, but rode quietly side 
 by side. 
 
 They had come to the end of the valley, and were 
 crossing the bench. The distant ranch could quite dis- 
 tinctly be seen. The silver moon had come up, for they 
 had not been hurrying, and a great beauty pervaded 
 everything. They almost shrank from approaching the 
 buildings and people. They had enjoyed the ride and 
 the companionship. Every step brought them nearer 
 to what they had known all the time was an indistinct 
 future from which they had been joyously shut away 
 for a little time till they might know each other.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 BAD NEWS 
 
 They found rest for the night at the ranch house. 
 The place was wide and hospitable. The girl looked 
 about her with wonder on the comfortable arrangements 
 for work. If only her mother had had such a kitchen to 
 work in, and such a pleasant, happy home, she might 
 have been living yet. There was a pleasant-faced, sweet- 
 voiced woman with gray hair whom the men called 
 ^' mother.'^ She gave the girl a kindly welcome, and 
 made her sit down to a nice warm supper, and, 
 when it was over, led her to a little room where 
 her own bed was, and told her she might sleep with 
 her. The girl lay down in a maze of wonder, but was 
 too weary with the long ride to keep awake and think 
 about it. 
 
 They slept, the two travellers, a sound and dreamless 
 sleep, wherein seemed peace and moonlight, and a for- 
 getting of sorrows. 
 
 Early the next morning the girl awoke. The woman 
 by her side was already stirring. There was breakfast 
 to get for the men. The woman asked her a few ques- 
 tions about her journey. 
 
 ''He's your brother, ain't he, dearie?" asked the 
 woman as she was about to leave the room. 
 
 ''No," said the girl. 
 
 "O," said the woman, puzzled, "then you and he's 
 goin' to be married in the town." 
 
 83
 
 84 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 "O, no!** said the girl with scarlet cheeks, thinking of 
 the lady in the automobile. 
 
 ** Not goin' to be married, dearie? Now that's too bad. 
 Ain't he any kind of relation to you? Not an uncle nor 
 cousin nor nothin'?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 *'Then how he's you travellin' lone with him? It 
 don't seem just right. You's a sweet, good girl; an' he's 
 a fine man. But harm's come to more'n one. Where'd 
 you take up with each other? Be he a neighbor? He 
 looks Hke a man from way off, not hereabouts. You sure 
 he ain't deceivin' you, dearie?" 
 
 The girl flashed her eyes in answer. 
 
 *'Yes, I'm sure. He's a good man. He prays to our 
 Father. No, he's not a neighbor, nor an uncle, nor a 
 cousin. He's just a man that got lost. We were both 
 lost on the prairie in the night; and he's from the East, 
 and got lost from his party of hunters. He had nothing to 
 eat, but I had; so I gave him some. Then he saved my 
 life when a snake almost stung me. He's been good to 
 me." 
 
 The woman looked relieved. 
 
 "And where you goin', dearie, all 'lone? What your 
 folks thinkin' 'bout to let you go 'lone this way?" 
 
 "They're dead," said the girl with great tears in her 
 eyes. 
 
 "Dearie me! And you so young! Say, dearie, s 'pose 
 you stay here with me. I'm lonesome, an' there's no 
 women near by here. You could help me and be comp'ny. 
 The men would like to have a girl round. There's plenty 
 likely men on this ranch could make a good home fer a 
 girl sometime. Stay here with me, dearie." 
 
 Had this refuge been offered the girl during her first
 
 BAD NEWS 85 
 
 night in the wilderness, with what joy and thankfulness 
 she would have accepted! Now it suddenly seemed a 
 great impossibility for her to stay. She must go on. 
 She had a pleasant ride before her, and delightful com- 
 panionship; and she was going to school. The world 
 was wide, and she had entered it. She had no mind to 
 pause thus on the threshold, and never see further than 
 Montana. Moreover, the closing words of the woman 
 did not please her. 
 
 "I cannot stay," she said decidedly. "I'm going to 
 school. And I do not want a man. I have just run away 
 from a man, a dreadful one. I am going to school in the 
 East. I have some relations there, and perhaps I can 
 find them." 
 
 "You don't say so!" said the woman, looking dis- 
 appointed. She had taken a great fancy to the sweet 
 young face. "Well, dearie, why not stay here a little 
 while, and write to your folks, and then go on with some 
 one who is going your way? I don't like to see you go 
 off with that man. It ain't the proper thing. He knows 
 it himself. I'm afraid he's deceivin' you. I can see by 
 his clo'es he's one of the fine young fellows that does as 
 they please. He won't think any good of you if you keep 
 travellin' 'lone with him. It's all well 'nough when you get 
 lost, an' he was nice to help you out and save you from 
 snakes; but he knows he ain't no business travellin' 'lone 
 with you, you pretty little creature!" 
 
 "You must not talk so!" said the girl, rising and flash- 
 ing her eyes again. "He's a good man. He's what my 
 brother called 'a white man all through.' Besides, he's 
 got a lady, a beautiful lady, in the East. She rides in 
 some kind of a grand carriage that goes of itself, and he 
 thinks a great deal of her."
 
 86 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 The woman looked as if she were but half convinced. 
 
 "It may seem all right to you, dearie/' she said sadly; 
 "but I'm old; and I've seen things happen. You'd find 
 his fine lady wouldn't go jantin' round the world 'lone 
 with him unless she's married. I've Uved East, and I 
 know; and what's more, he knows it too. He may mean 
 all right, but you never can trust folks." 
 
 The woman went away to prepare breakfast then, and 
 left the girl feeling as if the whole world was against her, 
 trying to hold her. She was glad when the man suggested 
 that they hurry their breakfast and get away as quickly 
 as possible. She did not smile when the old woman came 
 out to bid her good-by, and put a detaining hand on the 
 horse's bridle, saying, "You better stay with me, after 
 all, hadn't you, dearie?" 
 
 The man looked inquiringly at the two women, and saw 
 like a flash the suspicion of the older woman, read the 
 trust and haughty anger in the beautiful younger face, 
 and then smiled down on the old woman whose kindly 
 hospitality had saved them for a while from the terrors 
 of the open night, and said: 
 
 "Don't you worry about her, auntie. I'm going to 
 take good care of her, and perhaps she'll write you a 
 letter some day, and tell you where she is and what she's 
 doing." 
 
 Half reassured, the old woman gave him her name and 
 address; and he wrote them down in a little red note- 
 book. 
 
 When they were well started on their way, the man 
 explained that he had hurried because from conversation 
 with the men he had learned that this ranch where they 
 had spent the night was on the direct trail from Malta to 
 another small town. It might be that the pursuers
 
 BAD NEWS 87 
 
 would go further than Malta. Did she think they would 
 go so far? They must have come almost a hundred miles 
 already. Would they not be discouraged? 
 
 But the girl looked surprised. A hundred miles on 
 horseback was not far. Her brother often used to ride 
 a hundred miles just to see a fight or have a good time. 
 She felt sure the men would not hesitate to follow a long 
 distance if something else did not turn them aside. 
 
 The man's face looked sternly out from under his wide 
 hat. He felt a great responsibility for the girl since he 
 had seen the face of the man who was pursuing her. 
 
 Their horses were fresh, and the day was fine. They 
 rode hard as long as the road was smooth, and did little 
 talking. The girl was turning over in her mind the words 
 the woman had spoken to her. But the thing that stuck 
 there and troubled her was, ''And he knows it is so." 
 
 Was she doing something for which this man by her 
 side would not respect her? Was she overstepping some 
 unwritten law of which she had never heard, and did he 
 know it, and yet encourage her in it? 
 
 That she need fear him in the least she would not believe. 
 Had she not watched the look of utmost respect on his 
 face as he stood quietly waiting for her to awake the first 
 morning they had met? Had he not had opportunity 
 again and again to show her dishonor by word or look? 
 Yet he had never been anything but gentle and courteous 
 to her. She did not call things by these names, but she 
 felt the gentleman in him. 
 
 Besides, there was the lady. He had told about her 
 at the beginning. He evidently honored the lady. The 
 woman had said that the lady would not ride with him 
 alone. Was it true? Would he not like to have the 
 lady ride alone with him when she was not his relative in
 
 88 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 any way? Then was there a difference between his 
 thought of the lady and of herseK? Of course, there was 
 some; he loved the lady, but he should not think less 
 /'honortibly of her than of any lady in the land. 
 V She jSat straight and proudly in her man's saddle, and 
 tried to make him feel that she was worthy of respect. 
 She had tried to show him this when she had shot the 
 bird. Now she recognized that there was a fine some- 
 thing, higher than shooting or prowess of any kind, 
 which would command respect. It was something she 
 felt belonged to her, yet she was not sure she commanded 
 it. What did she lack, and how could she secure it? 
 
 He watched her quiet, thoughtful face, and the lady of 
 his former troubled thoughts was as utterly forgotten 
 by him as if she had never existed. He was unconsciously 
 absorbed in the study of eye and lip and brow. His eyes 
 were growing accustomed to the form and feature of 
 this girl beside him, and he took pleasure in watching 
 her. 
 
 They stopped for lunch in a coulee under a pretty 
 cluster of cedar-trees a little back from the trail, where 
 they might look over the way they had come and be 
 warned against pursuers. About three o'clock they 
 reached a town. Here the railroad came directly from 
 Malta, but there was but one train a day each way. 
 
 The man went to the public stopping-place and asked 
 for a room, and boldly demanded a private place for his 
 *'sister" to rest for a while. ''She is my little sister," he 
 told himself in excuse for the word. ''She is my sister 
 to care for. That is, if she were my sister, this is what I 
 should want some good man to do for her." 
 
 He smiled as he went on his way after leaving the girl 
 to rest. The thought of a sister pleased him. The old
 
 BAD NEWS 89 
 
 woman at the ranch had made him careful for the girl 
 who was thus thrown in his company. 
 
 He rode down through the rough town to the railway 
 station, but a short distance from the rude stopping-place; 
 and there he made inquiries concerning roads, towns, 
 etc., in the neighboring locality, and sent a telegram to 
 the friends with whom he had been hunting when he got 
 lost. He said he would be at the next town about twenty 
 miles away. He knew that by this time they would be 
 back home and anxious about him, if they were not 
 already sending out searching parties for him. His 
 message read: 
 
 ''Hit the trail all right. Am taking a trip for my 
 health. Send mail to me at " 
 
 Then after careful inquiry as to directions, and learning 
 that there was more than one route to the town he had 
 mentioned in his telegram, he went back to his companion. 
 She was ready to go, for the presence of other people 
 about her made her uneasy. She feared again there 
 would be objection to their further progress together. 
 Somehow the old woman's words had grown into a shadow 
 which hovered over her. She mounted her horse gladly, 
 and they went forward. He told her what he had just 
 done, and how he expected to get his mail the next morn- 
 ing when they reached the next town. He explained 
 that there was a ranch half-way there where they might 
 stop all night. 
 
 She was troubled at the thought of another ranch. 
 She knew there would be more questions, and perhaps 
 other disagreeable words said; but she held her peace, 
 listening to his plans. Her wonder was great over the 
 telegram. She knew little or nothing about modern 
 discoveries. It was a mystery to her how he could
 
 90 ' THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 receive word by morning from a place that it had taken 
 them nearly two days to leave behind, and how had he 
 sent a message over a wire? Yes, she had heard of tele- 
 grams, but had never been quite sure they were true. 
 When he saw that she was interested, he went on to tell 
 her of other wonderful triumphs of science, the telephone, 
 the electric light, gas, and the modern system of water- 
 works. She listened as if it were all a fairy tale. Some- 
 times she looked at him, and wondered whether it could 
 be true, or whether he were not making fun of her; but 
 his earnest, honest eyes forbade doubt. 
 
 At the ranch they found two women, a mother and 
 her daughter. The man asked frankly whether they could 
 take care of this young friend of his overnight, saying 
 that she was going on to the town in the morning, and was 
 in his care for the journey. This seemed to relieve all 
 suspicion. The two girls eyed each other, and then 
 smiled. 
 
 ''I'm Myrtle Baker," said the ranch-owner's daughter. 
 ''Come; I'll take you where you can wash your hands 
 and face, and then we'll have some supper." 
 
 Myrtle Baker was a chatterer by nature. She talked 
 incessantly; and, though she asked many questions, she 
 did not wait for half of them to be answered. Besides, 
 the traveller had grown wary. She did not intend to talk 
 about the relationship between herself and her travelling 
 companion. There was a charm in Myrtle's company 
 which made the girl half regret leaving the next morning, 
 as they did quite early, amid protests from Myrtle and 
 her mother, who enjoyed a visitor in their isolated 
 home. 
 
 But the ride that morning was constrained. Each felt 
 in some subtle way that their pleasant companionship
 
 BAD NEWS 91 
 
 was coming to a crisis. Ahead in that town would be 
 letters, communications from the outside world of friends, 
 people who did not know or care what these two had been 
 through together, and who would not hesitate to separate 
 them with a firm hand. Neither put this thought into 
 words, but it was there in their hearts, in the form of a 
 vague fear. They talked very little, but each was feeling 
 how pleasant the journey had been, and dreading what 
 might be before. 
 
 They wanted to stay in this Utopia of the plains, for- 
 ever journeying together, and never reaching any trouble- 
 some futures where were laws and opinions by which 
 they must abide. 
 
 But the morning grew bright, and the road was not 
 half long enough. Though at the last they walked their 
 horses, they reached the town before the daily train had 
 passed through. They went straight to the station, and 
 found that the train was an hour late; but a telegram had 
 arrived for the man. He took it nervously, his fingers 
 trembling. He felt a premonition that it contained 
 something unpleasant. 
 
 The girl sat on her horse by the platform, watching 
 him through the open station door where he was standing 
 as he tore open the envelope. She saw a deathly pallor 
 overspread his face, and a look of anguish as if an arrow 
 had pierced his heart. She felt as if the arrow had gone 
 on into her own heart, and then she sat and waited. It 
 seemed hours before he glanced up, with an old, weary 
 look in his eyes. The message read: 
 
 " Your mother seriously ill. Wants you immediately. 
 Will send your baggage on morning train. Have wired 
 you are coming. '^ 
 
 It was signed by his cousin with whom he had been
 
 92 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 taking his hunting-trip, and who was bound by business 
 to go further West within a few days more. 
 
 The strong young man was almost bowed under this 
 sudden stroke. His mother was very dear to him. He 
 had left her well and happy. He must go to her at once, 
 of course; but what should he do with the girl who had 
 within the last two days taken so strong a hold upon his 
 — he hesitated, and called it ''protection." That word 
 would do in the present emergency. 
 
 Then he looked, and saw her own face pale under the 
 tan, and stepped out to the platform to tell her.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE PARTING 
 
 She took the news like a Spartan. Her gentle pity 
 was simply expressed, and then she held her peace. He 
 must go. He must leave her. She knew that the train 
 would carry him to his mother's bedside quicker than a 
 horse could go. She felt by the look in his eyes and the 
 set of his mouth that he had already decided that. Of 
 course he must go. And the lady was there too! His 
 mother and the lady! The lady would be sorry by this 
 time, and would love him. Well, it was all right. He 
 had been good to her. He had been a strong, bright 
 angel God had sent to help her out of the wilderness ; and 
 now that she was safe the angel must return to his heaven. 
 This was what she thought. 
 
 He had gone into the station to inquire about the 
 train. It was an hour late. He had one short hour in 
 which to do a great deal. He had very little money with 
 him. Naturally men do not carry a fortune when they 
 go out into the wilderness for a day's shooting. For- 
 tunately he had his railroad return ticket to Philadelphia. 
 That would carry him safely. But the girl. She of 
 course had no money. And where was she going? He 
 reaUzed that he had failed to ask her many important 
 questions. He hiuried out, and explained to her. 
 
 "The train is an hour late. We must sell our horses, 
 and try to get money enough to take us East. It is the 
 only way. Where do you intend going?" 
 
 93
 
 94 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 But the girl stiffened in her seat. She knew it was her 
 opportunity to show that she was worthy of his honor 
 and respect. 
 
 "I cannot go with you," she said very quietly. 
 
 "But you must/' said he impatiently. ''Don't you 
 see there is no other way? I must take this train and get 
 to my mother as soon as possible. She may not be living 
 when I reach her if I don't." Something caught in his 
 throat as he uttered the horrible thought that kept com- 
 ing to his mind. 
 
 "1 know," said the girl quietly. ''You must go, but 
 I must ride on." 
 
 "And why? I should like to know. Don't you see 
 that I cannot leave you here alone? Those villains may 
 be upon us at any minute. In fact, it is a good thing for 
 us to board the train and get out of their miserable coun- 
 try as fast as steam can carry us. I am sorry you must 
 part with your horse, for I know you are attached to it; 
 but perhaps we can arrange to sell it to some one who 
 will let us redeem it when we send the money out. You 
 see I have not money enough with me to buy you a 
 ticket. I couldn't get home myself if I hadn't my return 
 ticket with me in my pocket. But surely the sale of both 
 horses will bring enough to pay your way." 
 
 "You are very kind, but I must not go." The red Hps 
 were firm, and the girl was sitting very erect. She looked 
 as she had done after she had shot the bird. 
 
 "But why?" 
 
 "I cannot travel alone with you. It is not your custom 
 where you come from. The woman on the ranch told me. 
 She said you knew girls did not do that, and that you 
 did not respect me for going alone with you. She said it 
 was not right, and that you knew it."
 
 THE PARTING 95 
 
 He looked at her impatient, angry, half ashamed that 
 she should face him with these words. 
 
 ''Nonsense!" said he. ''This is a case of necessity. 
 You are to be taken care of, and I am the one to do it." 
 
 "But it is not the custom among people where you 
 live, is it?" 
 
 The clear eyes faced him down, and he had to admit 
 that it was not. 
 
 "Then I can't go," she said decidedly. 
 
 "But you must. If you don't, I won't go." 
 
 "But you must," said the girl, "and I mustn't. If you 
 talk that way, I'll run away from you. I've run away 
 from one man, and I guess I can from another. Besides, 
 you're forgetting the lady." 
 
 "What lady?" 
 
 "Your lady. The lady who rides in a carriage without 
 horses." 
 
 "Hang the lady!" he said inelegantly. "Do you know 
 that the train will be along here in less than an hour, and 
 we have a great deal to do before we can get on board? 
 There's no use stopping to talk about this matter. We 
 haven't time. If you will just trust things to me, I'll 
 attend to them all, and I'll answer your questions when 
 we get safely on the train. Every instant is precious. 
 Those men might come around that corner over there 
 any minute. That's all bosh about respect. I respect 
 you more than any woman I ever met. And it's my 
 business to take care of you." 
 
 "No, it's not your business," said the girl bravely, 
 "and I can't let you. I'm nothing to you, you know." 
 
 "You're every — that is — why, you surely know 
 you're a great deal to me. Why, you saved my life, you 
 know!"
 
 96 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 ''Yes, and you saved mine. That was beautiful, but 
 that's all." 
 
 "Isn't that enough? What are you made of, anyway, 
 to sit there when there's so much to be done, and those 
 villains on our track, and insist that you won't be saved? 
 Respect you! Why, a lion in the wilderness would have 
 to respect you. You're made of iron and steel and pre- 
 cious stones. You've the courage of a — a — I was going 
 to say a man, but I mean an angel. You're pure as snow, 
 and true as the heavenly blue, and firm as a rock; and, 
 if I had never respected you before, I would have to now. 
 I respect, I honor, I — I — I — pray for you!" he 
 finished fiercely. 
 
 He turned his back to hide his emotion. 
 
 She lifted her eyes to his when he turned again, and her 
 own were full of tears. 
 
 ''Thank you!" She said it very simply. "That 
 makes me — very — glad! But I cannot go with you." 
 
 "Do you mean that?" he asked her desperately. 
 
 "Yes," steadily. 
 
 "Then I shall have to stay too." 
 
 "But you can't! You must go to your mother. 1 
 won't be stayed with. And what would she think? 
 Mothers are — everything!" she finished. "You must 
 go quick and get ready. What can I do to help?" 
 
 He gave her a look which she remembered long years 
 afterward. It seemed to burn and sear its way into her 
 soul. How was it that a stranger had the power to scorch 
 her with anguish this way? And she him? 
 
 He turned, still with that desperate, half-frantic look 
 in his face, and accosted two men who stood at the other 
 end of the platform. They were not in particular need 
 of a horse at present; but they were always ready to look
 
 THE PARTING 97 
 
 at a bargain, and they walked speculatively down the 
 uneven boards of the platform with him to where his 
 horse stood, and inspected it. 
 
 The girl watched the whole proceeding with eyes that 
 saw not but into the future. She put in a word about the 
 worth of the saddle once when she saw it was going lower 
 than it should. Three other men gathered about before 
 the bargain was concluded, and the horse and its equip- 
 ments sold for about half its value. 
 
 That done, the man turned toward the girl and mo- 
 tioned to her to lead her borse away to a more quiet 
 place, and set him down to plead steadily against her 
 decision. But the talk and the horse-selling had taken 
 more time than he realized. The girl was more decided 
 than ever in her determination not to go with him. She 
 spoke of the lady again. She spoke of his mother, and 
 mothers in general, and finished by reminding him that 
 God would take care of her, and of him, too. 
 
 Then they heard the whistle of the train, and saw it 
 growing from a speck to a large black object across the 
 plain. To the girl the sight of this strange machine, that 
 seemed more like a creature rushing toward her to snatch 
 all beauty and hope and safety from her, sent a thrill of 
 horror. To the man it seemed like a dreaded fate that 
 was tearing him asunder. He had barely time to divest 
 himself of his powder-horn, and a few little things that 
 might be helpful to the girl in her journey, before the 
 train was halting at the station. Then he took from his 
 pocket the money that had been paid him for his horse; 
 and, selecting a five-dollar bill for himself, he wrapped the 
 rest in an envelope bearing his own name and address. 
 The envelope was one addressed by the lady at home. 
 It had contained some gracefully worded refusal of a re-
 
 98 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 quest. But he did not notice now what envelope he 
 gave her. 
 
 ''Take this/' he said. "It will help a little. Yes, you 
 must! I cannot leave you — I will not — unless you do/' 
 when he saw that she hesitated and looked doubtful. "I 
 owe you all and more for saving my life. I can never re- 
 pay you. Take it. You may return it sometime when 
 you get plenty more of your own, if it hurts your pride to 
 keep it. Take it, please. Yes, I have plenty for myself. 
 You will need it, and you must stop at nice places over- 
 night. You will be very careful, won't you? My name 
 is on that envelope. You must write to me and let me 
 know that you are safe." 
 
 ''Some one is calling you, and that thing is beginning to. 
 move again," said the girl, an awesome wonder in her 
 face. "You will be left behind! O, hurry! Quick! 
 Your mother!" 
 
 He half turned toward the train, and then came back. 
 
 "You haven't told me your name!" he gasped. "Tell 
 me quick!" 
 
 She caught her breath. 
 
 "Elizabeth!" she answered, and waved him from her. 
 
 The conductor of the train was shouting to him, and 
 two men shoved him toward the platform. He swung 
 himself aboard with the accustomed ease of a man who 
 has travelled; but he stood on the platform, and shouted, 
 "Where are you going?" as the train swung noisily off. 
 
 She did not hear him, but waved her hand, and gave 
 him a bright smile that was brimming with unshed tears. 
 It seemed like instant, daring suicide in him to stand on 
 that swaying, clattering house as it moved off irrespon- 
 sibly down the plane of vision. She watched him till 
 he was out of sight, a mere speck on the horizon of the
 
 THE PARTING 99 
 
 prairie; and then she turned her horse slowly into the 
 road, and went her way into the world alone. 
 
 The man stood on the platform, and watched her as he 
 whirled away — a little brown girl on a little brown horse, 
 so stanch and firm and stubborn and good. Her eyes 
 were dear, and her lips as she smiled; and her hand was 
 beautiful as it waved him good-by. She was dear, dear, 
 dear! Why had he not known it? Why had he left her? 
 Yet how could he stay? His mother was dying perhaps. 
 He must not fail her in what might be her last summons. 
 Life and death were pulling at his heart, tearing him 
 asunder. 
 
 The vision of the little brown girl and the little brown 
 horse blurred and faded. He tried to look, but could not 
 see. He brought his eyes to nearer vision to fix their 
 focus for another look, and straight before him whirled 
 a shackly old saloon, rough and tumble, its character 
 apparent from the men who were grouped about its 
 doorway and from the barrels and kegs in profusion out- 
 side. From the doorway issued four men, wiping their 
 mouths and shouting hilariously. Four horses stood tied 
 to a fence near by. They were so instantly passed, and 
 so vaguely seen, that he could not be sure in the least, but 
 those four men reminded him strongly of the four who 
 had passed the schoolhouse on Sunday. 
 
 He shuddered, and looked back. The little brown 
 horse and the little brown girl were one with the little 
 brown station so far away, and presently the saloon and 
 men were blotted out in one blur of green and brown and 
 yellow. 
 
 He looked to the ground in his despair. He must go 
 back. He could not leave her in such peril. She was 
 his to care for by all the rights of manhood and
 
 100 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 womanhood. She had been put in his way. It was his 
 duty. 
 
 But the ground whirled by under his madness, and 
 showed him plainly that to jump off would be instant 
 death. Then the thought of his mother came again, and 
 the girl's words, ''I am nothing to you, you know." 
 
 The train whirled its way between two mountains and 
 the valley, and the green and brown and yellow blur were 
 gone from sight. He felt as if he had just seen the coffin 
 close over the girl's sweet face, and he had done it. 
 
 By and by he crawled into the car, pulled his slouch 
 hat down over his eyes, and settled down in a seat; but 
 all the time he was trying to see over again that old saloon 
 and those four men, and to make out their passing identity. 
 Sometimes the agony of thinking it all over, and trying 
 to make out whether those men had been the pursuers, 
 made him feel frantic; and it seemed as if he must pull 
 the bell-cord, and make the train stop, and get off to 
 walk back. Then the utter hopelessness of ever finding 
 her would come over him, and he would settle back in 
 his seat again and try to sleep. But the least drowsiness 
 would bring a vision of the girl galloping alone over the 
 prairie with the four men in full pursuit behind. "EUza- 
 beth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth!" the car-wheels seemed to 
 say. 
 
 Elizabeth — that was all he had of her. He did not 
 know the rest of her name, nor where she was going. He 
 did not even know where she had come from, just ''Eliza- 
 beth" and ''Montana." If anything happened to her, 
 he would never know. Oh! why had he left her? Why 
 had he not made her go with him? In a case like that a 
 man should assert his authority. But, then, it was true. 
 he had none, and she had said she would run away. She
 
 THE PARTING 101 
 
 would have done it too. O, if it had been anything but 
 sickness and possible death at the other end — and his 
 mother, his own little mother! Nothing else would have 
 kept him from staying to protect Elizabeth. 
 
 What a fool he had been! There were questions he 
 might have asked, and plans they might have made, all 
 those beautiful days and those moon-silvered nights. If 
 any other man had done the same, he would have thought 
 him lacking mentally. But here he had maundered on, 
 and never found out the all-important things about her. 
 Yet how did he know then how important they were to 
 be? It had seemed as if they had all the world before 
 them in the brilliant sunlight. How could he know that 
 modern improvements were to seize him in the midst of a 
 prairie waste, and whirl him off from her when he had 
 just begun to know what she was, and to prize her com- 
 pany as a most precious gift dropped down from heaven 
 at his feet? 
 
 By degrees he came out of his hysterical frenzy, and 
 returned to a somewhat normal state of mind. He 
 reasoned himself several times into the belief that those 
 men were not in the least like the men he had seen Sunday. 
 He knew that one could not recognize one's ov/n brother 
 at that distance and that rate of passing speed. He tried 
 to think that Elizabeth w^ould be cared for. She had 
 come through many a danger, and was it likely that the 
 God in whom she trusted, who had guarded her so many 
 times in her great peril, would desert her now in her dire 
 need? Would He not raise up help for her somewhere? 
 Perhaps another man as good as he, and as trustworthy as 
 he had tried to be, would find her and help her. 
 
 But that thought was not pleasant. He put it away 
 impatiently. It cut him. Why had she talked so much
 
 102 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 about the lady? The lady! Ah! How was it the lady 
 came no more into his thoughts? The memory of her 
 haughty face no more quickened his heart-beats. Was 
 he fickle that he could lose what he had supposed was a 
 lifelong passion in a few days? 
 
 The darkness was creeping on. Where was Elizabeth? 
 Had she found a refuge for the night? Or was she 
 wandering on an unknown trail, hearing voices and oaths 
 through the darkness, and seeing the gleaming of wild 
 eyes low in the bushes ahead? How could he have left 
 her? How could he? He must go back even yet. He 
 must, he must, he must! 
 
 And so it went on through the long night. 
 
 The train stopped at several places to take on water; 
 but there seemed to be no human habitation near, or else 
 his eyes were dim with his trouble. Once, when they 
 stopped longer than the other times, he got up and 
 walked the length of the car and down the steps to the 
 ground. He even stood there, and let the train start 
 jerkily on till his car had passed him, and the steps were 
 just sliding by, and tried to think whether he would not 
 stay, and go back in some way to find her. Then the 
 impossibility of the search, and of his getting back in time 
 to do any good, helped him to spring on board just before 
 it was too late. He walked back to his seat saying to 
 himself, 'Tool! Fool!'' 
 
 It was not till morning that he remembered his baggage 
 and went in search of it. There he found a letter from 
 his cousin, with other letters and telegrams explaining the 
 state of affairs at home. He came back to his seat laden 
 with a large leather grip and a suitcase. He sat down to 
 read his letters, and these took his mind away from his 
 troubled thoughts for a little while. There was a letter
 
 THE PARTING 103 
 
 from his mother, sweet, graceful, half wistfully offering 
 her sympathy. He saw she guessed the reason why he 
 had left her and gone to this far place. Dear little mother! 
 What would she say if she knew his trouble now? And 
 then would return his heart-frenzy over Elizabeth's peril. 
 O to know that she was protected, hidden! 
 
 Fumbling in his pocket, he came upon a slip of paper, 
 the slip the girl had given Elizabeth in the schoolhouse 
 on Sunday afternoon. ''For in the time of trouble he 
 shall hide me in his pavilion; in the secret of his tabernacle 
 shall he hide me.'' 
 
 Ah! God had hidden her then. Why not again? 
 And what was that he had said to her himself, when 
 searching for a word to cover his emotion? ''I pray for 
 you!" Why could he not pray? She had made him 
 pray in the wilderness. Should he not pray for her who 
 was in peril now? He leaned back in the hot, uncomfort- 
 able car-seat, pulling his hat down closer over his eyes, 
 and prayed as he had never prayed before. '' Our Father " 
 he stumbled through as far as he could remember, and 
 tried to think how her sweet voice had filled in the places 
 where he had not known it the other time. Then, when 
 he was done, he waited and prayed, ''Our Father, care 
 for Ehzabeth," and added, "For Jesus' sake. Amen." 
 Thereafter through the rest of his journey, and for days 
 and weeks stretching ahead, he prayed that prayer, and 
 sometimes found in it his only solace from the terrible 
 fear that possessed him lest some harm had come to the 
 girl, whom it seemed to him now he had deserted in cold 
 blood.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 IN A TRAP 
 
 Elizabeth rode straight out to the east, crossing the 
 town as rapidly as possible, going full gallop where the 
 streets were empty. On the edge of the town she crossed 
 another trail running back the way that they had come; 
 but without swerving she turned out toward the world, 
 and soon passed into a thick growth of trees, around a 
 hill. 
 
 Not three minutes elapsed after she had passed the cross- 
 ing of the trails before the four men rode across from the 
 other direction, and, pausing, called to one another, look- 
 ing this way and that: 
 
 ''What d'ye think, Bill? Shall we risk the right hand 
 'r the left?" 
 
 ''Take the left hand fer luck," answered Bill. "Let^s 
 go over to the ranch and ask. Ef she's been hereabouts, 
 she's likely there. The old woman '11 know. Come on, 
 boys!" 
 
 And who shall say that the angel of the Lord did not 
 stand within the crossing of the ways and turn aside the 
 evil men? 
 
 Elizabeth did not stop her fierce ride until about noon. 
 The frenzy of her fear of pursuit had come upon her with 
 renewed force. Now that she was alone and desolate 
 she dared not look behind her. She had been strong 
 enough as she smiled her farewell; but, when the train 
 had dwindled into a mere speck in the distance, her eyes 
 
 104
 
 IN A TRAP 105 
 
 were dropping tears thick and fast upon the horse's 
 mane. So in the first heaviness of her loneUness she rode 
 as if pursued by enemies close at hand. 
 
 But the horse must rest if she did not, for he was her 
 only dependence now. So she sat her down in the shade 
 of a tree, and tried to eat some dinner. The tears came 
 again as she opened the pack which the man's strong 
 hands had bound together for her. How little she had 
 thought at breakfast-time that she would eat the next 
 meal alone! 
 
 It was all well enough to tell him he must go, and say 
 she was nothing to him; but it was different now to face 
 the world without a single friend when one had learned 
 to know how good a friend could be. Almost it would 
 have been better if he had never found her, never saved 
 her from the serpent, never ridden beside her and talked 
 of wonderful new things to her; for now that he was 
 gone the emptiness and loneliness were so much harder to 
 bear; and now she was filled with a longing for things that 
 could not be hers. 
 
 It was well he had gone so soon, well she had no longer 
 to grow into the charm of his society; for he belonged 
 to the lady, and was not hers. Thus she ate her dinner 
 with the indifference of sorrow. 
 
 Then she took out the envelope, and counted over the 
 money. Forty dollars he had given her. She knew he 
 had kept but five for himself. How wonderful that he 
 should have done all that for her! It seemed a very great 
 wealth in her possession. Well, she would use it as 
 sparingly as possible, and thus be able the sooner to re- 
 turn it all to him. Some she must use, she supposed, to 
 buy food; but she would do with as little as she could. 
 She might sometimes shoot a bird, or catch a fish; oi
 
 106 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 there might be berries fit for food by the way. Nights 
 she must stop by the way at a respectable house. That 
 she had promised. He had told her of awful things that 
 might happen to her if she lay down in the wilderness 
 alone. Her lodging would sometimes cost her something. 
 Yet often they would take her in for nothing. She would 
 be careful of the money. 
 
 She studied the name on the envelope. George Trescott 
 
 Benedict, 2 Walnut Street, Philadelphia, Penn. The 
 
 letters were large and angular, not easy to read; but she 
 puzzled them out. It did not look like his writing. She 
 had watched him as he wrote the old woman's address 
 in his little red book. He wrote small, round letters,, 
 slanting backwards, plain as print, pleasant writing to 
 read. Now the old woman's address would never be of 
 any use, and her wish that Elizabeth should travel alone 
 was fulfilled. 
 
 There was a faint perfume from the envelope like wild- 
 wood flowers. She breathed it in, and wondered at it. 
 Was it perfume from something he carried in his pocket, 
 some flower his lady had once given him? But this was 
 not a pleasant thought. She put the envelope into her 
 bosom after studying it again carefully until she knew 
 the words by heart. 
 
 Then she drew forth the papers of her mother's that 
 she had brought from home, and for the first time read 
 them over. 
 
 The first was the marriage certificate. That she had 
 seen before, and had studied with awe; but the others 
 had been kept in a box that was never opened by the 
 children. The mother kept them sacredly, always with 
 the certificate on the top. 
 
 The largest paper she could not understand. It was
 
 IN A TRAP 107 
 
 something about a mine. There were a great many 
 "herebys" and ''whereases" and ''agreements" in it. 
 She put it back into the wrapper as of Httle account, 
 probably something belonging to her father, which her 
 mother had treasured for old time's sake. 
 
 Then came a paper which related to the claim where 
 their little log home had stood, and upon the extreme 
 edge of which the graves were. That, too, she laid rev- 
 erently within its wrapper. 
 
 Next came a bit of pasteboard whereon was inscribed, 
 "Mrs. Merrill Wilton Bailey, Rittenhouse Square, Tues- 
 days." That she knew was her grandmother's name, 
 though she had never seen the card before — her father's 
 mother. She looked at the card in wonder. It was 
 almost like a distant view of the lady in question. What 
 kind of a place might Rittenhouse Square be, and where 
 was it? There was no telling. It might be near that 
 wonderful Desert of Sahara that the man had talked 
 about. She laid it down with a sigh. 
 
 There was only one paper left, and that was a letter 
 written in pale pencil lines. It said: 
 
 *'My dear Bessie: Your pa died last week. He was 
 killed falling from a scaffold. He was buried on Monday 
 with five carriages and everything nice. We all got new 
 black dresses, and have enough for a stone. If it don't 
 cost too much, we'll have an angle on the top. I always 
 thought an angle pointing to heaven was nice. We wish 
 you was here. We miss you very much. I hope your 
 husband is good to you. Why don't you write to us? 
 You haven't wrote since your little girl was born. I 
 s'pose you call her Bessie like you. If anything ever 
 happens to you, you can send her to me. I'd kind of
 
 108 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 like her to fill your place. Your sister has got a baby 
 girl too. She calls her Lizzie. We couldn't somehow 
 have it natural to call her 'Lizabeth, and Nan wanted her 
 called for me. I was always Lizzie, you know. Now 
 you must write soon. 
 
 ''Your loving mother, 
 
 "Elizabeth Brady.'' 
 
 There was no date nor address to the letter, but an 
 address had been pencilled on the outside in her mother's 
 cramped school-girl hand. It was dim but still readable, 
 "Mrs. Elizabeth Brady, 18— Flora Street, Philadelphia." 
 
 Elizabeth studied the last word, then drew out the 
 envelope again, and looked at that. Yes, the two names 
 were the same. How wonderful! Perhaps she would 
 sometime, sometime, see him again, though of course he 
 belonged to the lady. But perhaps, if she went to school 
 and learned very fast, she might sometime meet him at 
 church — he went to church, she was sure — and then 
 he might smile, and not be ashamed of his friend who had 
 saved his life. Saved his life! Nonsense! She had not 
 done much. He would not feel any such ridiculous 
 indebtedness to her when he got back to home and friends 
 and safety. He had saved her much more than she had 
 saved him. 
 
 She put the papers all back in safety, and after having 
 prepared her few belongings for taking up the journey, 
 she knelt down. She would say the prayer before she 
 went on. It might be that would keep the terrible pur- 
 suers away. 
 
 She said it once, and then with eyes still closed she 
 waited a moment. Might she say it for him, who was 
 gone away from her? Perhaps it would help him, and
 
 IN A TRAP 109 
 
 keep him from falling from that terrible machine he was 
 riding on. Hitherto in her mind prayers had been only 
 for the dead, but now they seemed also to belong to all 
 who were in danger or trouble. She said the prayer 
 over once more, slowly, then paused a moment, and 
 added: ''Our Father, hide him from trouble. Hide 
 George Trescott Benedict. And hide me, please, too." 
 
 Then she mounted her horse, and went on her way. 
 
 It was a long and weary way. It reached over moun- 
 tains and through valleys, across winding, turbulent 
 streams and broad rivers that had few bridges. The 
 rivers twice led her further south than she meant to go, 
 in her ignorance. She had always felt that Philadelphia 
 was straight ahead east, as straight as one could go to 
 the heart of the sun. 
 
 Night after night she lay down in strange homes, some 
 poorer and more forlorn than others; and day after day 
 she took up her lonely travel again. 
 
 Gradually, as the days lengthened, and mountains piled 
 themselves behind her, and rivers stretched like barriers 
 between, she grew less and less to dread her pursuers, 
 and more and more to look forward to the future. It 
 seemed so long a way! Would it never end? 
 
 Once she asked a man whether he knew where Phila- 
 delphia was. She had been travelling then for weeks, 
 and thought she must be almost there. But he said 
 ''Philadelphia? O, Philadelphia is in the East. That's 
 a long way off. I saw a man once who came from there.'* 
 
 She set her firm little chin then, and travelled on. Her 
 clothes were much worn, and her skin was brown as a 
 berry. The horse plodded on with a dejected air. He 
 would have liked to stop at a number of places they 
 passed, and remain for life, what there was left of it; but
 
 110 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 he obediently walked on over any kind of an old road that 
 came in his way, and solaced himself with whatever kind 
 of a bite the roadside afforded. He was becoming a 
 much-travelled horse. He knew a threshing-machine by 
 sight now, and considered it no more than a prairie bob- 
 cat. 
 
 At one stopping-place a good woman advised Elizabeth 
 to rest on Sundays. She told her God didn't like people 
 to do the same on His day as on other days, and it would 
 bring her bad luck if she kept up her incessant riding. 
 It was bad for the horse too. So, the night being 
 Saturday, Elizabeth remained with the woman over the 
 Sabbath, and heard read aloud the fourteenth chapter 
 of John. It was a wonderful revelation to her. She did 
 not altogether understand it. In fact, the Bible was an 
 unknown book. She had never known that it was differ- 
 ent from other books. She had heard it spoken of by her 
 mother, but only as a book. She did not know it was a 
 book of books. 
 
 She carried the beautiful thoughts with her on the 
 way, and pondered them. She wished she might have 
 the book. She remembered the name of it, Bible, the 
 Book of God. Then God had written a book! Some day 
 she would try to find it and read it. 
 
 ''Let not your heart be troubled"; so much of the 
 message drifted into her lonesome, ignorant soul, and 
 settled down to stay. She said it over nights when she 
 found a shelter in some unpleasant place, or days when 
 the road was rough or a storm came up and she was com- 
 pelled to seek shelter by the roadside under a haystack 
 or in a friendly but deserted shack. She thought of it 
 the day there was no shelter and she was drenched to the 
 skin. She wondered afterward when the sun came out
 
 IN A TRAP 111 
 
 and dried her nicely whether God had really been speak- 
 ing the words to her troubled heart, ''Let not your heart 
 be troubled." 
 
 Every night and every morning she said "Our Father" 
 twice, once for herself and once for the friend who had 
 gone out into the world, it seemed about a hundred years 
 ago. 
 
 But one day she came across a railroad track. It 
 made her heart beat widlly. It seemed now that she must 
 be almost there. Railroads were things belonging to the 
 East and civilization. But the way was lonely still for 
 days, and then she crossed more railroads, becoming more 
 and more frequent, and came into the line of towns that 
 stretched along beside the snake-like tracks. 
 
 She fell into the habit of staying overnight in a town, 
 and then riding on to the next in the morning; but now 
 her clothes were becoming so dirty and ragged that she 
 felt ashamed to go to nice-looking places lest they should 
 turn her out; so she sought shelter in barns and small, 
 mean houses. But the people in these houses were dis- 
 tressingly dirty, and she found no place to wash. 
 
 She had lost track of the weeks or the months when she 
 reached her first great city, the only one she had come near 
 in her uncharted wanderings. 
 
 Into the outskirts of Chicago she rode undaunted, her 
 head erect, with the carriage of a queen. She had passed 
 Indians and cowboys in her journeying; why should she 
 mind Chicago? Miles and miles of houses and people. 
 There seemed to be no end to it. Nothing but houses 
 everywhere and hurried-looking people, many of them 
 working hard. Surely this must be Philadelphia. 
 
 A large, beautiful building attracted her attention. 
 There were handsome grounds about it, and girls playing
 
 112 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 some game with a ball and curious webbed implements 
 across a net of cords. Elizabeth drew her horse to the 
 side of the road, and watched a few minutes. One girl 
 was skilful, and hit the ball back every time. Elizabeth 
 almost exclaimed out loud once when a particularly fine 
 ball was played. She rode reluctantly on when the game 
 was finished, and saw over the arched gateway the words, 
 ^'Janeway School for Girls.'^ 
 
 Ah! This was Philadelphia at last, and here was her 
 school. She would go in at once before she went to her 
 grandmother's. It might be better. 
 
 She dismounted, and tied the horse to an iron. ring in a 
 post by the sidewalk. Then she went slowly, shyly up 
 the steps into the charmed circles of learning. She knew 
 she was shabby, but her long journey would explain that. 
 Would they be kind to her, and let her study? 
 
 She stood some time before the door, with a group of 
 laughing girls not far away whispering about her. She 
 smiled at them; but they did not return the salutation, 
 and their actions made her more shy. At last she stepped 
 into the open door, and a maid in cap and apron came 
 forward. "You must not come in here, miss/' she said 
 imperiously. ''This is a school." 
 
 "Yes," said Elizabeth gravely, smiling. "I want to 
 see the teacher." 
 
 "She's busy. You can't see her," snapped the maid. 
 
 "Then I will wait till she is ready. I've come a great 
 many miles, and I must see her." 
 
 The maid retreated at this, and an elegant woman in 
 trailing black silk and gold-rimmed glasses approached 
 threateningly. This was a new kind of beggar, of course, 
 and must be dealt with at once. 
 
 "What do you want?" she asked frigidly.
 
 IN A TRAP 113 
 
 *'Vve come to school/' said Elizabeth confidingly. ^'I 
 know I don't look very nice, but I've had to come all the 
 way from Montana on horseback. If you could let me 
 go where I can have some water and a thread and needle, 
 I can make myself look better." 
 
 The woman eyed the girl incredulously. 
 
 ''You have come to school!" she said; and her voice 
 was large, and frightened Elizabeth. "You have come 
 all the way from Montana! Impossible! You must be 
 crazy." 
 
 "No, ma'am, I'm not crazy," said Elizabeth. "I just 
 want to go to school." 
 
 The woman perceived that this might be an interesting 
 case for benevolently inclined people. It was nothing but 
 an annoyance to herself. "My dear girl," — her tone 
 was bland and disagreeable now, — "are you aware that 
 it takes money to come to school?" 
 
 "Does it?" said EUzabeth. "No, I didn't know it, 
 but I have some money. I could give you ten dollars 
 right now; and, if that is not enough, I might work some 
 way, and earn more." 
 
 The woman laughed disagreeably. 
 
 "It is impossible," she said. "The yearly tuition here 
 is five hundred dollars. Besides, we do not take girls 
 of your class. This is a finishing school for young ladies. 
 You will have to inquire further," and the woman swept 
 away to laugh with her colleagues over the queer charac- 
 ter, the new kind of tramp, she had just been called to 
 interview. The maid came pertly forward, and said that 
 Elizabeth could not longer stand where she was. 
 
 Bewilderment and bitter disappointment in her face, 
 Elizabeth went slowly down to her horse, the great tears 
 welling up into her eyes. As she rode away, she kept
 
 114 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 turning back to the school grounds wistfully. She did 
 not notice the passers-by, nor know that they were com- 
 menting upon her appearance. She made a striking 
 picture in her rough garments, with her wealth of hair, 
 her tanned skin, and tear-filled eyes. An artist noticed 
 it, and watched her down the street, half thinking he 
 would follow and secure her as a model for his next 
 picture. 
 
 A woman, gaudily bedecked in soiled finery, her face 
 giving evidence of the frequent use of rouge and powder, 
 watched her, and followed, pondering. At last she called, 
 ''My dear, my dear, wait a minute." She had to speak 
 several times before Elizabeth saw that she was talking 
 to her. Then the horse was halted by the sidewalk. 
 
 "My dear," said the woman, "you look tired and dis- 
 appointed. Don't you want to come home with me for 
 a little while, and rest?" 
 
 "Thank you," said Elizabeth, "but I am afraid I must 
 go on. I only stop on Sundays." 
 
 " But just come home with me for a little while," coaxed 
 the wheedling tones. "You look so tired, and I've some 
 girls of my own. I know you would enjoy resting and 
 talking with them." 
 
 The kindness in her tones touched the weary girl. Her 
 pride had been stung to the quick by the haughty woman 
 in the school. This woman would soothe her with kind- 
 ness. 
 
 "Do you live far from here?" asked EHzabeth. 
 
 "Only two or three blocks," said the woman. "You 
 ride along by the sidewalk, and w^e can talk. Where are 
 you going? You look as if you had come a long distance." 
 
 "Yes," said the girl wearily, "from Montana. I am 
 going to school. Is this Philadelphia?"
 
 IN A TRAP 115 
 
 "This is Chicago," said the woman. *' There are finer 
 schools here than in Philadelphia. If you like to come 
 and stay at my house awhile, I will see about getting 
 you into a school." 
 
 "Is it hard work to get people into schools?" asked the 
 girl wonderingly. "I thought they would want people 
 to teach." 
 
 "No, it's very hard," said the lying woman; "but I 
 think I know a school where I can get you in. Where are 
 your folks? Are they in Montana?" 
 
 "They are all dead," said Elizabeth, "and I have come 
 away to school." 
 
 "Poor child!" said the woman glibly. "Come right 
 home with me, and I'll take care of you. I know a nice 
 way you can earn your living, and then you can study if 
 you like. But you're quite big to go to school. It seems 
 to me you could have a good time without that. You 
 are a very pretty girl; do you know it? You only need 
 pretty clothes to make you a beauty. If you come with 
 me, I will let you earn some beautiful new clothes." 
 
 "You are very kind," said the girl gravely. "I do 
 need new clothes; and, if I could earn them, that would 
 be all the better." She did not quite like the woman; 
 yet of course that was foolish. 
 
 After a few more turns they stopped in front of a tall 
 brick building with a number of windows. It seemed 
 to be a good deal like other buildings; in fact, as she 
 looked up the street, Elizabeth thought there were 
 miles of them just. alike. She tied her horse in front of 
 the door, and went in with the woman. The woman 
 told her to sit down a minute until she called the lady of 
 the house, who would tell her more about the school. 
 There were a number of pretty girls in the room, and they
 
 116 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 made very free to speak to her. They twitted her about 
 her clothes, and in a way reminded Ehzabeth of the 
 girls in the school she had just interviewed. 
 
 Suddenly she spoke up to the group. An idea had 
 occurred to her. This was the school, and the woman had 
 not liked to say so until she spoke to the teacher about 
 her. 
 
 ^'Is this a school?" she asked shyly. 
 
 Her question was met with a shout of derisive laughter. 
 
 ''School!" cried the boldest, prettiest one. ''School 
 for scandal! School for morals!" 
 
 There was one, a thin, pale girl with dark circles under 
 her eyes, a sad droop to her mouth, and bright scarlet 
 spots in her cheeks. She came over to Elizabeth, and 
 whispered something to her. Elizabeth started forward, 
 unspeakable horror in her face. 
 
 She fled to the door where she had come in, but found it 
 fastened. Then she turned as if she had been brought to 
 bay by a pack of lions.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 PHILADELPHIA AT LAST 
 
 "Open this door!" she commanded. "Let me out of 
 here at once." 
 
 The pale girl started to do so, but the pretty one held 
 her back. "No, Nellie; Madam will be angry with us all 
 if you open that door." Then she turned to Elizabeth, 
 and said: 
 
 " Whoever enters that door never goes out again. You 
 are nicely caught, my dear." 
 
 There was a sting of bitterness and self-pity in the 
 taunt at the end of the words, Elizabeth felt it, as she 
 seized her pistol from her belt, and pointed it at the 
 astonished group. They were not accustomed to girls 
 with pistols. "Open that door, or I will shoot you all!" 
 she cried. 
 
 Then, as she heard some one descending the stairs, she 
 rushed again into the room where she remembered the 
 windows were open. They were guarded by wire screens; 
 but she caught up a chair, and dashed it through one, 
 plunging out into the street in spite of detaining hands 
 that reached for her, hands much hindered by the gleam 
 of the pistol and the fear that it might go off in their 
 midst. 
 
 It took but an instant to wrench the bridle from its 
 fastening and mount her horse; then she rode forward 
 through the city at a pace that only millionaires and 
 automobiles are allowed to take. She met and passed 
 
 117
 
 118 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 her first automobile without a quiver. Her eyes were 
 dilated, her lips set; angry, frightened tears were stream- 
 ing down her cheeks, and she urged her poor horse for- 
 ward until a policeman here and there thought it his 
 duty to make a feeble effort to detain her. But nothing 
 impeded her way. She fled through a maze of wagons, 
 carriages, automobiles, and trolley-cars, until she passed 
 the whirl of the great city, and at last was free again and 
 out in the open country. 
 
 She came toward evening to a little cottage on the edge 
 of a pretty suburb. The cottage was covered with roses, 
 and the front yard was full of great old-fashioned flowers. 
 On the porch sat a plain little old lady in a rocking-chair, 
 knitting. There was a little gate with a path leading up 
 to the door, and at the side another open gate with a road 
 leading around to the back of the cottage. 
 
 Ehzabeth saw, and murmuring, ''O 'our Father,' 
 please hide me!" she dashed into the driveway, and tore 
 up to the side of the piazza at a full gallop. She jumped 
 from the horse; and, leaving him standing panting with 
 his nose to the fence, and a tempting strip of clover in 
 front of him where he could graze when he should get his 
 breath, she ran up the steps, and flung herself in a miser- 
 able little heap at the feet of the astonished old lady. 
 
 ''0, please, please, won't you let me stay here a few 
 minutes, and tell me what to do? I am so tired, and I 
 have had such a dreadful, awful time!" 
 
 "Why, dearie me!" said the old lady. ''Of course I 
 will. Poor child; sit right down in this rocking-chair, 
 and have a good cry. I'll get you a glass of water and 
 something to eat, and then you shall tell me all about it." 
 
 She brought the water, and a tray with nice broad 
 slices of brown bread and butter, a generous piece of
 
 PHILADELPHIA AT LAST 119 
 
 apple pie, some cheese, and a glass pitcher of creamy 
 milk. 
 
 Elizabeth drank the water, but before she could eat 
 she told the terrible tale of her last adventure. It seemed 
 awful for her to believe, and she felt she must have help 
 somewhere. She had heard there were bad people in the 
 world. In fact, she had seen men who were bad, and once 
 a woman had passed their ranch whose character was said 
 to be questionable. She wore a hard face, and could drink 
 and swear like the men. But that sin should be in this 
 form, with pretty girls and pleasant, wheedling women 
 for agents, she had never dreamed; and this in the great, 
 civilized East! Almost better would it have been to 
 remain in the desert alone, and risk the pursuit of that 
 awful man, than to come all this way to find the world 
 gone wrong. 
 
 The old lady was horrified, too. She had heard more 
 than the girl of licensed evil; but she had read it in the 
 paper as she had read about the evils of the slave-traffic 
 in Africa, and it had never really seemed true to her. 
 Now she lifted up her hands in horror, and looked at the 
 beautiful girl before her with something akin to awe that 
 she had been in one of those dens of iniquity and escaped. 
 Over and over she made the girl tell what was said, and 
 how it looked, and how she pointed her pistol, and how 
 she got out ; and then she exclaimed in wonder, and called 
 her escape a miracle. 
 
 They were both weary from excitement when the tale 
 was told. Elizabeth ate her lunch; then the old lady 
 showed her where to put the horse, and made her go to 
 bed. It was only a wee little room with a cot-bed white 
 as snow where she put her; but the roses peeped in at the 
 window, and the box covered with an old white curtain
 
 120 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 contained a large pitcher of fresh water and a bowl and 
 soap and towels. The old lady brought her a clean white 
 nightgown, coarse and mended in many places, but 
 smelling of rose leaves; and in the morning she tapped at 
 the door quite early before the girl was up, and came in 
 with an armful of clothes. 
 
 ''I had some boarders last summer," she explained, 
 "and, when they went away, they left these things and 
 said I might put them into the home-mission box. But I 
 was sick when they sent it off this winter; and, if you ain't 
 a home mission, then I never saw one. You put 'em on. 
 I guess they'll fit. They may be a mite large, but she 
 was about your size. I guess your clothes are about 
 wore out; so you jest leave 'em here fer the next one, 
 and use these. There's a couple of extra shirt-waists you 
 can put in a bundle for a change. I guess folks won't dare 
 fool with you if you have some clean, nice clothes on." 
 
 Elizabeth looked at her gratefully, and wrote her down 
 in the list of saints with the woman who read the four- 
 teenth chapter of John. The old lady had neglected to 
 mention that from her own meagre wardrobe she had 
 supplied some under-garments, which were not included 
 in those the boarders had left. 
 
 Bathed and clothed in clean, sweet garments, with a 
 white shirt-waist and a dark-blue serge skirt and coat, 
 Elizabeth looked a different girl. She surveyed herself 
 in the little glass over the box-washstand and wondered. 
 All at once vanity was born within her, and an ambition 
 to be always thus clothed, with a horrible remembrance of 
 the woman of the day before, who had promised to show 
 her how to earn some pretty clothes. It flashed across 
 her mind that pretty clothes might be a snare. Perhaps 
 they had been to those girls she had seen in that house.
 
 PHILADELPHIA AT LAST 121 
 
 With much good advice and kindly blessings from the 
 old lady, Elizabeth fared forth upon her journey once 
 more, sadly wise in the wisdom of the world, and less 
 sweetly credulous than she had been, but better fitted to 
 fight her way. 
 
 The story of her journey from Chicago to Philadelphia 
 would fill a volume if it were written, but it might pall 
 upon the reader from the very variety of its experiences. 
 It was made slowly and painfully, with many haltings 
 and much lessening of the scanty store of money that 
 had seemed so much when she received it in the wilder- 
 ness. The horse went lame, and had to be watched over 
 and petted, and finally, by the advice of a kindly farmer, 
 taken to a veterinary surgeon, who doctored him for a 
 week before he finally said it was safe to let him hobble 
 on again. After that the girl was more careful of the 
 horse. If he should die, what would she do? 
 
 One dismal morning, late in November, Elizabeth, 
 wearing the old overcoat to keep her from freezing, rode 
 into Philadelphia. 
 
 Armed with instructions from the old lady in Chicago, 
 she rode boldly up to a policeman, and showed him the 
 address of the grandmother to whom she had decided to 
 go first, her mother's mother. He sent her on in the 
 right direction, and in due time with the help of other 
 policemen she reached the right number on Flora Street. 
 
 It was a narrow street, banked on either side by small, 
 narrow brick houses of the older type. Here and there 
 gleamed out a scrap of a white marble door-step, but 
 most of the houses were approached by steps of dull 
 stone or of painted wood. There was a dejected and 
 dreary air about the place. The street was swarming 
 with children in various stages of the soiled condition.
 
 122 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 Elizabeth timidly knocked at the door after being 
 assured by the interested urchins who surrounded her 
 that Mrs. Brady really lived there, and had not moved 
 away or anything. It did not seem wonderful to the girl, 
 who had lived her life thus far in a mountain shack, to 
 find her grandmother still in the place from which she had 
 written fifteen years before. She did not yet know what 
 a floating population most cities contain. 
 
 Mrs. Brady was washing when the knock sounded 
 through the house. She was a broad woman, with a face 
 on which the cares and sorrows of the years had left a not 
 too heavy impress. She still enjoyed life, even though a 
 good part of it was spent at the wash-tub, washing other 
 people's fine clothes. She had some fine ones of her own 
 up-stairs in her clothes-press; and, when she went out, it 
 was in shiny satin, with a bonnet bobbing with jet and a 
 red rose, though of late years, strictly speaking, the 
 bonnet had become a hat again, and Mrs. Brady was in 
 style with the other old ladies. 
 
 The perspiration was in little beads on her forehead 
 and trickling down the creases in her well-cushioned neck 
 toward her ample bosom. Her gray hair was neatly 
 combed, and her calico wrapper was open at the throat 
 even on this cold day. She wiped on her apron the soap- 
 suds from her plump arms steaming pink from the hot 
 suds, and went to the door. 
 
 She looked with disfavor upon the peculiar person on 
 the door-step attired in a man's overcoat. She was pre- 
 pared to refuse the demands of the Salvation Army for 
 a nickel for Christmas dinners; or to silence the banana- 
 man, or the fish-man, or the man with shoe-strings and 
 pins and pencils for sale; or to send the photograph-agent 
 on his way; yes, even the man who sold albums for post-
 
 PHILADELPHIA AT LAST 123 
 
 cards. She had no time to bother with anybody this 
 morning. 
 
 But the young person in the rusty overcoat, with the 
 dark-blue serge Eton jacket under it, which might have 
 come from Wanamaker's two years ago, who yet wore a 
 leather belt with gleaming pistols under the Eton jacket, 
 was a new species. Mrs. Brady w^as taken off her guard; 
 else Elizabeth might have found entrance to her grand- 
 mother's home as difficult as she had found entrance to 
 the finishing school of Madame Janeway. 
 
 '' Are you Mrs. Brady? " asked the girl. She was search- 
 ing the forbidding face before her for some sign of likeness 
 to her mother, but found none. The cares of Eliza- 
 beth Brady's daughter had outweighed those of the 
 mother, or else they sat upon a nature more sensitive. 
 
 ''I am," said Mrs. Brady, imposingly. 
 
 "Grandmother, I am the baby you talked about in that 
 letter," she announced, handing Mrs. Brady the letter 
 she had written nearly eighteen years before. 
 
 The woman took the envelope gingerly in the wet thumb 
 and finger that still grasped a bit of the gingham apron. 
 She held it at arm's length, and squinted up her eyes, 
 trying to read it without her glasses. It was some new 
 kind of beggar, of course. She hated to touch these dirty 
 envelopes, and this one looked old and worn. She stepped 
 back to the parlor table where her glasses were lying, and, 
 adjusting them, began to read the letter. 
 
 ''For the land sakes! Where 'd you find this?" she 
 said, looking up suspiciously. ''It's against the law to 
 open letters that ain't your own. Didn't me daughter 
 ever get it? I wrote it to her meself. How come you 
 by it?" 
 
 "Mother read it to me long ago when I was little/'
 
 124 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 answered the girl, the slow hope fading from her lips as 
 she spoke. Was every one, was even her grandmother, 
 going to be cold and harsh with her? "Our Father, hide 
 me!" her heart murmured, because it had become a 
 habit; and her listening thought caught the answer, "Let 
 not your heart be troubled." 
 
 "Well, who are you?" said the uncordial grandmother, 
 still puzzed. "You ain't Bessie, me Bessie. Fer one 
 thing, you're 'bout as young as she was when she went 
 off 'n' got married, against me 'dvice, to that drunken, 
 lazy dude." Her brow was lowering, and she proceeded 
 to finish her letter. 
 
 "I am Elizabeth," said the girl with a trembling voice, 
 "the baby you talked about in that letter. But please 
 don't call father that. He wasn't ever bad to us. He 
 was always good to mother, even when he was drunk. 
 If you talk like that about him, I shall have to go 
 away." 
 
 " Fer the land sakes! You don't say," said Mrs. Brady, 
 sitting down hard in astonishment on the biscuit uphol- 
 stery of her best parlor chair. "Now you ain't Bessie's 
 child! Well, I am clear beat. And growed up so big! 
 You look strong, but you're kind of thin. What makes 
 your skin so black? Your ma never was dark, ner your 
 pa, neither." 
 
 "I've been riding a long way in the wind and sun and 
 rain." 
 
 "Fer the land sakes!" as she looked through the win- 
 dow to the street. "Not on a horse?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "H'm! What was your ma thinkin' about to let you 
 do that?" 
 
 "My mother is dead. There was no one left to care
 
 PHILADELPHIA AT LAST 125 
 
 what I did. I had to come. There were dreadful people 
 out there, and I was afraid." 
 
 ''Fer the land sakes!" That seemed the only remark 
 that the capable Mrs. Brady could make. She looked at 
 her new granddaughter in bewilderment, as if a strange 
 sort of creature had suddenly laid claim to relation- 
 ship. 
 
 ''Well, I'm right glad to see you," she said stiffly, wip- 
 ing her hand again on her apron and putting it out for- 
 mally for a greeting. 
 
 Elizabeth accepted her reception gravely, and sat 
 down. She sat down suddenly, as if her strength had 
 given way and a great strain was at an end. As she sat 
 down, she drooped her head back against the wall; and a 
 gray look spread about her lips. 
 
 "You're tired," said the grandmother, energetically. 
 *'Come far this morning?" 
 
 "No," said Elizabeth, weakly, "not many miles; but I 
 hadn't any more bread. I used it all up yesterday, and 
 there wasn't much money left. I thought I could wait 
 till I got here, but I guess I'm hungry." 
 
 "Fer the land sakes!" ejaculated Mrs. Brady as she 
 hustled out to the kitchen, and clattered the frying-pan 
 onto the stove, shoving the boiler hastily aside. She 
 came in presently with a steaming cup of tea, and made 
 the girl drink it hot and strong. Then she established 
 her in the big rocking-chair in the kitchen with a plate of 
 appetizing things to eat, and went on with her washing, 
 punctuating every rub with a question, 
 
 Elizabeth felt better after her meal, and offered to help, 
 but the grandmother would not hear to her lifting a 
 finger. 
 
 "You naust rest first," she suid. "It beats me how
 
 126 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 you ever got here. I'd sooner crawl on me hands and 
 knees than ride a great, scary horse." 
 
 Elizabeth sprang to her feet. 
 
 "The horse!" she said. "Poor fellow! He needs 
 something to eat worse than I did. He hasn't had a bite 
 of grass all this morning. There was nothing but hard 
 roads and pavements. The grass is all brown, anyway, 
 now. I found .some cornstalks by the road, and once a 
 man dropped a big bundle of hay out of his load. If it 
 hadn't been for Robin, I'd never have got here; and here 
 I've sat enjoying my breakfast, and Robin out there 
 hungry!" 
 
 "Fer the land sakes!" said the grandmother, taking her 
 arms out of the suds and looked troubled. "Poor fellow! 
 What would he like? I haven't got any hay, but there's 
 some mashed potatoes left, and what is there? Why, 
 there's some excelsior the lamp-shade come packed in. 
 You don't suppose he'd think it was hay, do you? No, I 
 guess it wouldn't taste very good." 
 
 "Where can I put him, grandmother?" 
 
 "Fer the land sakes! I don't know," said the grand- 
 mother, looking around the room in alarm, " We haven't 
 any place fer horses. Perhaps you might get him into 
 the back yard fer a while till we think what to do. There's 
 a stable, but they charge high to board horses. Lizzie 
 knows one of the fellers that works there. Mebbe he'll 
 tell us what to do. Anyway, you lead him round to the 
 alleyway, and we'll see if we can't get him in the little 
 ash-gate. You don't suppose he'd try to get in the 
 house, do you? I shouldn't like him to come in the 
 kitchen when I was getting supper." 
 
 "O no!" said EHzabeth. "He's very good. Where 
 is the back yard?'*
 
 PHILADELPHIA AT LAST 127 
 
 This arrangement was finally made, and the two women 
 stood in the kitchen door, watching Robin drink a bucket- 
 ful of water and eat heartily of the various viands that 
 Mrs. Brady set forth for him, with the exception of the 
 excelsior, which he snuffed at in disgust. 
 
 ^'Now, ain't he smart?" said Mrs. Brady, watching 
 fearfully from the door-step, where she might retreat if 
 the animal showed any tendency to step nearer to the 
 kitchen. ''But don't you think he's cold? Wouldn't he 
 like a — a — shawl or something?" 
 
 The girl drew the old coat from her shoulders, and threw 
 it over him, her grandmother watching her fearless 
 handling of the horse with pride and awe. 
 
 ''We're used to sharing this together," said the girl 
 simply. 
 
 "Nan sews in an up-town dressmaker's place," ex- 
 plained Mrs. Brady by and by, when the wash was hung 
 out in fearsome proximity to the weary horse's heels, 
 and the two had returned to the warm kitchen to clean 
 up and get supper. "Nan's your ma's sister, you know, 
 older'n her by two year; and Lizzie, that's her girl, she's 
 about 's old 's you. She's got a good place in the ten- 
 cent store. Nan's husband died four years ago, and her 
 and me've been livin' together ever since. It'll be nice 
 fer you and Lizzie to be together. She'll make it lively 
 fer you right away. Prob'ly she can get you a place at 
 the same store. She'll be here at half past six to-night. 
 This is her week to get out early." 
 
 The aunt came in first. She was a tall, thin woman 
 with faded brown hair and a faint resemblance to Eliza- 
 beth's mother. Her shoulders stooped slightly, and her 
 voice was nasal. Her mouth looked as if it was used to 
 holding pins in one corner and gossiping out of the other.
 
 128 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 She was one of the kind who always get into a rocking- 
 chair to sew if they can, and rock as they sew. Never- 
 theless, she was skilful in her way, and commanded good 
 wages. She welcomed the new niece reluctantly, more 
 excited over her remarkable appearance among her 
 relatives after so long a silence than pleased, Elizabeth 
 felt. But after she had satisfied her curiosity she was 
 kind, beginning to talk about Lizzie, and mentally com- 
 pared this thin, brown girl with rough hair and dowdy 
 clothes to her own stylish daughter. Then Lizzie burst in. 
 They could hear her calling to a young man who had 
 walked home with her, even before she entered the house. 
 
 ''It's just fierce out, ma!" she exclaimed. ''Grandma, 
 ain't supper ready yet? I never was so hungry in all my 
 life. I could eat a house afire." 
 
 She stopped short at sight of Elizabeth. She had been 
 chewing gum — Lizzie was always chewing gum — but 
 her jaws ceased action in sheer astonishment. 
 
 "This is your cousin Bessie, come all the way from 
 Montana on horseback, Lizzie. She's your aunt Bessie's 
 child. Her folks is dead now, and she's come to live 
 with us. You must see ef you can't get her a place in 
 the ten-cent store 'long with you," said the grandmother. 
 
 Lizzie came airily forward, and grasped her cousin's 
 hand in mid-air, giving it a lateral shake that bewildered 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 "Pleased to meet you," she chattered glibly, and set 
 her jaws to work again. One could not embarrass Lizzie 
 long. But she kept her eyes on the stranger, and let 
 them wander disapprovingly over her apparel in a pointed 
 way as she took out the long hat-pins from the cumber- 
 some hat she wore and adjusted her ponderous pompa- 
 dour.
 
 PHILADELPHIA AT LAST 129 
 
 "Lizzie '11 have to help fix you up," said the aunt, 
 noting Lizzie's glance. ''You're all out of style. I sup- 
 pose they get behind times out in Montana. Lizzie, 
 can't you show her how to fix her hair pompadour?" 
 
 Lizzie brightened. If there was a prospect of changing 
 things, she was not averse to a cousin of her own age; 
 but she never could take such a dowdy-looking girl into 
 society, not the society of the ten-cent store. 
 
 ''O, cert!" answered Lizzie affably. ''I'll fix you fine. 
 Don't you worry. How'd you get so awful tanned? I 
 s'pose riding. You look like you'd been to the seashore, 
 and lay out on the beach in the sun. But 'tain't the right 
 time o' year quite. It must be great to ride horseback!" 
 
 "I'll teach you how if you want to learn," said Eliza- 
 beth, endeavoring to show a return of the kindly offer. 
 
 "Me? What would I ride? Have to ride a counter, 
 I guess. I guess you won't find much to ride here in the 
 city, 'cept trolley-cars." 
 
 "Bessie's got a horse. He's out in the yard now," said 
 the grandmother with pride. 
 
 "A horse! All your own? Gee whiz! Won't the 
 girls stare when I tell them? Say, we can borrow a rig 
 at the livery some night, and take a ride. Dan'll go 
 with us, and get the rig for us. Won't that be great?" 
 
 Elizabeth smiled. She felt the glow of at last contribut- 
 ing something to the family pleasure. She did not wish 
 her coming to be so entirely a wet blanket as it had 
 seemed at first; for, to tell the truth, she had seen blank 
 dismay on the face of each separate relative as her identity 
 had been made known. Her heart was lonely, and she 
 hungered for some one who "belonged" and loved 
 her. 
 
 Supper was put on the table, and the two girls began
 
 130 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 to get a little acquainted, chattering over clothes and the 
 arrangement of hair. 
 
 "Do you know whether there is anything in Phila- 
 delphia called 'Christian Endeavor'?'^ asked Elizabeth 
 after the supper-table was cleared off. 
 
 " O, Chrishun 'deavor! Yes, I used t' b'long," answered 
 Lizzie. She had removed the gum from her mouth while 
 she ate her supper, but now it was busy again between 
 sentences. ''Yes, we have one down to our church. It 
 was real interesting, too; but I got mad at one of the 
 members, and quit. She was a stuck-up old maid, any- 
 way. She was always turning round and scowling at us 
 girls if we just whispered the least little bit, or smiled; 
 and one night she was leading the meeting, and Jim 
 Forbes got in a corner behind a post, and made mouths 
 at her behind his book. He looked awful funny. It was 
 something fierce the way she always screwed her face up 
 when she sang, and he looked just like her. We girls, 
 Hetty and Em'line and I, got to laughing, and we just 
 couldn't stop; and didn't that old thing stop the singing 
 after one verse, and look right at us, and say she thought 
 Christian Endeavor members should remember whose 
 house they were in, and that the owner was there, and all 
 that rot. I nearly died, I was so mad. Everybody 
 looked around, and we girls choked, and got up and went 
 out. I haven't been down since. The lookout com- 
 mittee came to see us 'bout it; but I said I wouldn't go 
 back where I'd been insulted, and I've never been inside 
 the doors since. But she's moved away now. I would'nt 
 mind going back if you want to go." 
 
 " Whose house did she mean it was? Was it her house? " 
 
 *'0, no, it wasn't her house," laughed Lizzie. "It was 
 the church. She meant it was God's house, I s'pose, but
 
 PHILADELPHIA AT LAST 131 
 
 she needn't have been so pernickety. We weren't doing 
 any harm." 
 
 *'Does God have a house?" 
 
 "Why, yes; didn't you know that? Why, you talk 
 hke a heathen, Bessie. Didn't you have churches in 
 Montana?" 
 
 "Yes, there was a church fifty miles away. I heard 
 about it once, but I never saw it," answered Elizabeth. 
 "But what did the woman mean? Who did she say was 
 there? God? Was God in the church? Did you see 
 Him, and know He was there when you laughed?" 
 
 "O, you silly!" giggled Lizzie. "Wouldn't the girls 
 laugh at you, though, if they could hear you talk? Why, 
 of course God was there. He's everywhere, you know," 
 with superior knowledge; "but I didn't see Him. You 
 can't see God." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Why, because you can't!" answered her cousin with 
 final logic. "Say, haven't you got any other clothes with 
 you at all? I'd take you down with me in the morning 
 if you was fixed up."
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 IN FLIGHT AGAIN 
 
 When Elizabeth lay down to rest that night, with 
 Lizzie still chattering by her side, she found that there 
 was one source of intense pleasure in anticipation, and 
 that was the prospect of going to God's house to Christian 
 Endeavor. Now perhaps she would be able to find out 
 what it all had meant, and whether it were true that God 
 took care of people and hid them in time of trouble. 
 She felt almost certain in her own little experience that 
 He had cared for her, and she wanted to be quite sure, 
 so that she might grasp this precious truth to her heart 
 and keep it forever. No one could be quite alone in the 
 world if there was a God who cared and loved and hid. 
 
 The aunt and the grandmother were up betimes the 
 next morning, looking over some meagre stores of old 
 clothing, and there was found an old dress which it was 
 thought could be furbished over for Ehzabeth. They 
 were hard-working people with little money to spare, and 
 everything had to be utilized; but they made a great 
 deal of appearance, and Lizzie was proud as a young 
 peacock. She would not take Elizabeth to the store to 
 face the head man without having her fixed up according 
 to the most approved style. 
 
 So the aunt cut and fitted before she went off for the 
 day, and Elizabeth was ordered to sew while she was gone. 
 The grandmother presided at the rattling old sewing- 
 machine, and in two or three days Elizabeth was pro- 
 
 132
 
 IN FLIGHT AGAIN 133 
 
 nounced to be fixed up enough to do for the present till 
 she could earn some new clothes. With her fine hair 
 snarled into a cushion and puffed out into an enormous 
 pompadour that did not suit her face in the least, and 
 wth an old hat and jacket of Lizzie's which did not be- 
 come her nor fit her exactly, she started out to make her 
 way in the world as a saleswoman. Lizzie had already 
 secured her a place if she suited. 
 
 The store was a maze of wonder to the girl from the 
 mountains — so many bright, bewildering things, ribbons 
 and tin pans, glassware and toys, cheap jewelry and 
 candies. She looked about with the dazed eyes of a 
 creature from another world. 
 
 But the manager looked upon her with eyes of favor. 
 He saw that her eyes were bright and keen. He was 
 used to judging faces. He saw that she was as yet un- 
 spoiled, with a face of refinement far beyond the general 
 run of the girls who applied to him for positions. And 
 he was not beyond a friendly flirtation with a pretty new 
 girl himself; so she was engaged at once, and put on duty 
 at the notion-counter. 
 
 The girls flocked around her during the intervals of 
 custom. Lizzie had told of her cousin's long ride, em- 
 bellished, wherever her knowledge failed, by her ex- 
 tremely wild notions of Western life. She had told how 
 Elizabeth arrived wearing a belt with two pistols, and 
 this gave Elizabeth standing at once among all the people 
 in the store. A girl who could shoot, and who wore 
 pistols in a belt like a real cowboy, had a social distinc- 
 tion all her own. 
 
 The novel-reading, theatre-going girls rallied around 
 her to a girl; and the young men in the store were not far 
 behind. Elizabeth was popular from the first. More-
 
 134 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 over, as she settled down into the routine of life, and had 
 three meals every day, her cheeks began to round out 
 just a little; and it became apparent that she was un- 
 usually beautiful in spite of her dark skin, which whitened 
 gradually under the electric light and high-pressure life 
 of the store. 
 
 They went to Christian Endeavor, Elizabeth and her 
 cousin; and Elizabeth felt as if heaven had suddenly 
 dropped down about her. She lived from week to week for 
 that Christian Endeavor. 
 
 The store, which had been a surprise and a novelty at 
 first, began to be a trial to her. It wore upon her nerves. 
 The air was bad, and the crowds were great. It was 
 coming on toward Christmas time, and the store was 
 crammed to bursting day after day and night after night, 
 for they kept open evenings now until Christmas. Eliza- 
 beth longed for a breath from the mountains, and grew 
 whiter and thinner. Sometimes she felt as if she must 
 break away from it all, and take Robin, and ride into the 
 wilderness again. If it were not for the Christian En- 
 deavor, she would have done so, perhaps. 
 
 Robin, poor beast, was well housed and well fed; but 
 he worked for his living as did his mistress. He was a 
 grocer's delivery horse, worked from Monday morning 
 early till Saturday night at ten o'clock, subject to curses 
 and kicks from the grocery boy, expected to stand meekly 
 at the curbstones, snuffing the dusty brick pavements 
 while the boy delivered a box of goods, and while trolleys 
 and beer-wagons and automobiles slammed and rumbled 
 and tooted by him, and then to start on the double-quick 
 to the next stopping-place. 
 
 He to be thus under the rod who had trod the plains 
 with a free foot and snuffed the mountain air! It was a
 
 IN FLIGHT AGAIN 135 
 
 great come-down, and his life became a weariness to him. 
 But he earned his mistress a dollar a week besides his 
 board. There would have been some consolation in that 
 to his faithful heart if he only could have known it. 
 Albeit she would have gladly gone without the dollar if 
 Robin could have been free and happy. 
 
 One day, one dreadful day, the manager of the ten- 
 cent store came to Elizabeth with a look in his eyes that 
 reminded her of the man in Montana from whom she 
 had fled. He was smiling, and his words were unduly 
 pleasant. He wanted her to go w^ith him to the theatre 
 that evening, and he complimented her on her appear- 
 ance. He stated that he admired her exceedingly, and 
 wanted to give her pleasure. But somehow Elizabeth 
 had fallen into the habit ever since she left the prairies 
 of comparing all men with George Trescott Benedict; 
 and this man, although he dressed well, and was every bit 
 as handsome, did not compare well. There was a sinister, 
 selfish glitter in his eyes that made Elizabeth think of the 
 serpent on the plain just before she shot it. Therefore 
 Elizabeth declined the invitation. 
 
 It happened that there was a missionary meeting at 
 the church that evening. All the Christian Endeavorers 
 had been urged to attend. Elizabeth gave this as an 
 excuse; but the manager quickly swept that away, saying 
 she could go to church any night, but she could not go 
 to this particular play with him always. The girl eyed 
 him calmly with much the same attitude with which she 
 might have pointed her pistol at his head, and said 
 gravely, 
 
 ''But I do not want to go with you." 
 
 After that the manager hated her. He always hated 
 girls who resisted him. He hated her, and wanted to do
 
 136 THE GIKL FROM MONTANA 
 
 her harm. But he fairly persecuted her to receive his 
 attentions. He was a young fellow, extremely young to 
 be occupying so responsible a position. He undoubtedly 
 had business ability. He showed it in his management 
 of Elizabeth. The girl's life became a torment to her. 
 In proportion as she appeared to be the manager's favor- 
 ite the other girls became jealous of her. They taunted 
 her with the manager's attentions on every possible 
 occasion. When they found anything wrong, they 
 charged it upon her; and so she was kept constantly 
 going to the manager, which was perhaps just what he 
 wanted. 
 
 She grew paler and paler, and more and more des- 
 perate. She had run away from one man; she had run 
 away from a woman; but here w^as a man from whom 
 she could not run away unless she gave up her position. 
 If it had not been for her grandmother, she would have 
 done so at once; but, if she gave up her position, she 
 would be thrown upon her grandmother for support, and 
 that must not be. She understood from the family talk 
 that they were having just as much as they could do 
 already to make both ends meet and keep the all-import- 
 ant god of Fashion satisfied. This god of Fashion had 
 come to seem to Elizabeth an enemy of the living God. 
 It semed to occupy all people's thoughts, and everything 
 else had to be sacrificed to meet its demands. 
 
 She had broached the subject of school one evening 
 soon after she arrived, but was completely squelched by 
 her aunt and cousin. 
 
 "You're too old!" sneered Lizzie. ''School is for 
 children." 
 
 "Lizzie went through grammar school, and we talked 
 about high for her," said the grandmother proudly.
 
 IN FLIGHT AGAIN 137 
 
 "But I just hated school/^ grinned Lizzie. ''It ain't so 
 nice as it's cracked up to be. Just sit and study all day 
 long. Why, they were always keeping me after school for 
 talking or laughing. I was glad enough when I got through. 
 You may thank your stars you didn't have to go, Bess." 
 
 "People who have to earn their bread can't lie around 
 and go to school," remarked Aunt Nan dryly, and Eliza- 
 beth said no more. 
 
 But later she heard of a night-school, and then she took 
 up the subject once more. Lizzie scoffed at this. She 
 said night-school was only for very poor people, and it was 
 a sort of disgrace to go. But Elizabeth stuck to her 
 point, until one day Lizzie came home with a tale about 
 Temple College. She had heard it was very cheap. You 
 could go for ten cents a night, or something like that. 
 Things that were ten cents appealed to her. She was 
 used to bargain-counters. 
 
 She heard it was quite respectable to go there, and 
 they had classes in the evening. You could study 
 gymnastics, and it would make you graceful. She wanted 
 to be graceful. And she heard they had a course in 
 millinery. If it was so, she believed she would go herself, 
 and learn to make the new kind of bows they were hav- 
 ing on hats this winter. She could not seem to get the 
 right twist to the ribbon. 
 
 Elizabeth wanted to study geography. At least, that 
 was the study Lizzie said would tell her where the Desert 
 of Sahara was. She wanted to know things, all kinds of 
 things; but Lizzie said such things were only for children, 
 and she didn't believe they taught such baby studies in 
 a college. But she would inquire. It was silly of Bessie 
 to want to know, she thought, and she was half ashamed 
 to ask. But she would find out.
 
 138 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 It was about this time that Elizabeth^s life at the store 
 grew intolerable. 
 
 One morning — it was little more than a week before 
 Christmas — Elizabeth had been sent to the cellar to get 
 seven little red tin pails and shovels for a woman who 
 wanted them for Christmas gifts for some Sunday-school 
 class. She had just counted out the requisite number 
 and turned to go up-stairs when she heard some one step 
 near her, and, as she looked up in the dim light, there 
 stood the manager. 
 
 "At last I've got you alone, Bessie, my dear! " He said 
 it with suave triumph in his tones. He caught Elizabeth 
 by the wrists, and before she could wrench herself away 
 he had kissed her. 
 
 With a scream Elizabeth dropped the seven tin pails 
 and the seven tin shovels, and with one mighty wrench 
 took her hands from his grasp. Instinctively her hand 
 went to her belt, where were now no pistols. If one had 
 been there she certainly would have shot him in her 
 horror and fury. But, as she had no other weapon, she 
 seized a little shovel, and struck him in the face. Then 
 with the frenzy of the desert back upon her she rushed 
 up the stairs, out through the crowded store, and into the 
 street, hatless and coatless in the cold December air. 
 The passers-by made way for her, thinking she had been 
 sent out on some hurried errand. 
 
 She had left her pocketbook, with its pitifully few 
 nickels for car-fare and lunch, in the cloak-room with 
 her coat and hat. But she did not stop to think of that. 
 She was fleeing again, this time on foot, from a man. 
 She half expected he might pursue her, and make her 
 come back to the hated work in the stifling store with his 
 wicked face moving everywhere above the crowds. But
 
 IN FLIGHT AGAIN 139 
 
 she turned not to look back. On over the slushy pave- 
 ments, under the leaden sky, with a few busy flakes 
 floating about her. 
 
 The day seemed pitiless as the world. Where could 
 she go and what should she do? There seemed no refuge 
 for her in the wide world. Instinctively she felt her 
 grandmother would feel that a calamity had befallen 
 them in losing the patronage of the manager of the ten- 
 cent store. Perhaps Lizzie would get into trouble. 
 What should she do? 
 
 She had reached the corner where she and Lizzie usually 
 took the car for home. The car was coming now; but she 
 had no hat nor coat, and no money to pay for a ride. 
 She must walk. She paused not, but fled on in a steady 
 run, for which her years on the mountain had given her 
 breath. Three miles it was to Flora Street, and she 
 scarcely slackened her pace after she had settled into 
 that steady half-run, half-walk. Only at the corner of 
 Flora Street she paused, and allowed herself to glance 
 back once. No, the manager had not pursued her. She 
 was safe. She might go in and tell her grandmother with- 
 out fearing he would come behind her as soon as her 
 back was turned.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 Mrs. Brady was at the wash-tub again when her most 
 uncommon and unexpected grandchild burst into the 
 room. 
 
 She wiped her hands on her apron, and sat down with 
 her usual exclamation, "Fer the land sakes! What's 
 happened? Bessie, tell me quick. Is anjiihing the 
 matter with Lizzie? Where is she?'' 
 
 But Elizabeth was on the floor at her feet in tears. 
 She was shaking with sobs, and could scarcely manage 
 to stammer out that Lizzie was all right. Mrs. Brady 
 settled back with a relieved sigh. Lizzie was the first 
 grandchild, and therefore the idol of her heart. If Lizzie 
 was all right, she could afford to be patient and find out 
 by degrees. 
 
 ''It's that awful man, grandmother! " Elizabeth sobbed 
 out. 
 
 ''What man? That feller in Montana you run away 
 from?" The grandmother sat up with snapping eyes. 
 She was not afraid of a man, even if he did shoot people. 
 She would call in the police and protect her own flesh 
 and blood. Let him come. Mrs. Brady was ready for 
 him. 
 
 "No, no, grandmother, the man-man-manager at the 
 ten-cent store," sobbed the girl; "he kissed me! Oh!" 
 and she shuddered as if the memory was the most terrible 
 thing that ever came to her. 
 
 140
 
 Elizabeth's declaration of independence 141 
 
 'Ter the land sakes! Is that all?'' said the woman 
 with much relief and a degree of satisfaction. "Why, 
 that's nothing. You ought to be proud. Many a girl 
 would go boasting round about that. What are you 
 crying for? He didn't hurt you, did he? Why, Lizzie 
 seems to think he's fine. I tell you Lizzie wouldn't cry 
 if he was to kiss her, I'm sure. She'd just laugh, and 
 ask him fer a holiday. Here, sit up, child, and wash your 
 face, and go back to your work. You've evidently struck 
 the manager on the right side, and you're bound to get a 
 rise in your wages. Every girl he takes a notion to gets 
 up and does well. Perhaps you'll get money enough to 
 go to school. Goodness knows what you want to go for. 
 I s'pose it's in the blood, though Bess used to say your pa 
 wa'n't any great at study. But, if you've struck the 
 manager the right way, no telling what he might do. He 
 might even want to marry you." 
 
 ''Grandmother!" 
 
 Mrs. Brady was favored with the flashing of the Bailey 
 eyes. She viewed it in astonishment not unmixed with 
 admiration. 
 
 "Well, you certainly have got spirit," she ejaculated. 
 "I don't wonder he liked you. I didn't know you was 
 so pretty, Bessie; you look like your mother when she 
 was eighteen; you really do. I never saw the resem- 
 blance before. I believe you'll get on all right. Don't 
 you be afraid. I wish you had your chance if you're so 
 anxious to go to school. I shouldn't wonder ef you'd 
 turn out to be something and marry rich. Well, I must 
 be getting back to me tub. Land sakes, but you did give 
 me a turn. I thought Lizzie had been run over. I 
 couldn't think what else'd make you run off way here 
 without your coat. Come, get up, child, and go back
 
 142 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 to your work. It's too bad you don't like to be kissed, 
 but don't let that worry you. You'll have lots worse 
 than that to come up against. When you've lived as 
 long as I have and worked as hard, you'll be pleased to 
 have some one admire you. You better wash your face, 
 and eat a bite of lunch, and hustle back. You needn't 
 be afraid. If he's fond of you, he won't bother about 
 your running away a little. He'll excuse you ef 'tis busy 
 times, and not dock your pay neither." 
 
 "Grandmother!" said EUzabeth. ''Don't! I can 
 never go back to that awful place and that man. I would 
 rather go back to Montana. I would rather be dead." 
 
 "Hoity-toity!" said the easy-going grandmother, sit- 
 ting down to her task, for she perceived some wholesome 
 discipline was necessary. "You can't talk that way, 
 Bess. You got to go to your work. We ain't got money 
 to keep you in idleness, and land knows where you'd get 
 another place as good's this one. Ef you stay home all 
 day, you might make him awful mad; and then it would 
 be no use goin' back, and you might lose Lizzie her place 
 too." 
 
 But, though the grandmother talked and argued and 
 soothed by turns, Elizabeth was firm. She would not go 
 back. She would never go back. She would go to Mon- 
 tana if her grandmother said any more about it. 
 
 With a sigh at last Mrs. Brady gave up. She had given 
 up once before nearly twenty years ago. Bessie, her oldest 
 daughter, had a will like that, and tastes far above her 
 station. Mrs. Brady wondered where she got them. 
 
 "You're fer all the world like yer ma," she said as she 
 thumped the clothes in the wash-tub. " She was jest that 
 way, when she would marry your pa. She could 'a' had 
 Jim Stokes, the groceryndan, er Lodge, the milkman, er
 
 ELIZABETH'S DECLARATION OP INDEPENDENCE 143 
 
 her choice of three railroad men, all of 'em doing well, and 
 ready to let her walk over 'em; but she would have your 
 pa, the drunken, good-for-nothing, slippery dude. The 
 only thing I'm surprised at was that he ever married her. 
 I never expected it. I s'posed they'd run off, and he'd 
 leave her when he got tired of her; but it seems he stuck 
 to her. It's the only good thing he ever done, and I'm 
 not sure but she'd 'a' been better off ef he hadn't 'a' done 
 that." 
 
 ''Grandmother!" Elizabeth's face blazed. 
 
 ''Yes, gran' motherl" snapped Mrs. Brady. "It's all 
 true, and you might's well face it. He met her in church. 
 She used to go reg'lar. Some boys used to come and set 
 in the back seat behind the girls, and then go home with 
 them. They was all nice enough boys 'cept him. I 
 never had a bit a use fer him. He belonged to the swells 
 and the stuck-ups; and he knowed it, and presumed upon 
 it. He jest thought he could wind Bessie round his finger, 
 and he did. If he said, 'Go,' she went, no matter what 
 I'd do. So, when his ma found it out, she was hoppin* 
 mad. She jest came driving round here to me house, and 
 presumed to talk to me. She said Bessie was a designing 
 snip, and a bad girl, and a whole lot of things. Said she 
 was leading her son astray, and would come to no good 
 end, and a whole lot of stuff; and told me to look after 
 her. It wasn't so. Bess got John Bailey to quit smok- 
 ing fer a whole week at a time, and he said if she'd marry 
 him he'd quit drinking too. His ma couldn't 'a' got him 
 to promise that. She wouldn't even believe he got 
 drunk. I told her a few things about her precious son, 
 but she curled her fine, aristocratic lip up, and said, 
 'Gentlemen never get drunk.' Humph! Gentlemen! 
 That's all she knowed about it. He got drunk all right.
 
 144 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 and stayed drunk, too. So after that, when I tried to 
 keep Bess at home, she sUpped away one night; said she 
 was going to church; and she did too; went to the minis- 
 ter's study in a strange church, and got married, her and 
 John; and then they up and off West. John, he'd sold 
 his watch and his fine diamond stud his ma had give him; 
 and he borrowed some money from some friends of his 
 father's, and he off with three hundred dollars and Bess; 
 and that's all I ever saw more of me Bessie." 
 
 The poor woman sat down in her chair, and wept into 
 her apron regardless for once of the soap-suds that rolled 
 down her red, wet arms. 
 
 ''Is my grandmother living yet?" asked Elizabeth. 
 She was sorry for this grandmother, but did not know 
 what to say. She was afraid to comfort her lest she take 
 it for yielding. 
 
 ''Yes, they say she is," said Mrs. Brady, sitting up 
 with a show of interest. She was always ready for a bit 
 of gossip. "Her husband's dead, and her other son's 
 dead, and she's all alone. She lives in a big house on 
 Rittenhouse Square. If she was any 'count, she'd ought 
 to provide fer you. I never thought about it. But I 
 don't suppose it would be any use to try. You might 
 ask her. Perhaps she'd help you go to school. You've 
 got a claim on her. She ought to give you her son's share 
 of his father's property, though I've heard she disowned 
 him when he married our Bess. You might fix up in 
 some of Lizzie's best things, and go up there and try. 
 She might give you some money." 
 
 "I don't want her money," said Elizabeth stiffly. "I 
 guess there's work somewhere in the world I can do with- 
 out begging even of grandmothers. But I think I ought 
 to go and see her. She might want to know about father."
 
 Elizabeth's declaration of independence 145 
 
 Mrs. Brady looked at her granddaughter wonderingly. 
 This was a view of things she had never taken. 
 
 " Well," said she resignedly, " go your own gait. I don't 
 know where you'll come up at. All I say is, ef you're 
 going through the world with such high and mighty fine 
 notions, you'll have a hard time. You can't pick out 
 roses and cream and a bed of down every day. You have 
 to put up with life as you find it." 
 
 Elizabeth went to her room, the room she shared with 
 Lizzie. She wanted to get away from her grandmother's 
 disapproval. It lay on her heart like lead. Was there 
 no refuge in the world? If grandmothers were not 
 refuges, where should one flee? The old lady in 
 Chicago had understood; why had not Grandmother 
 Brady? 
 
 Then came the sweet old words, ''Let not your heart 
 be troubled." "In the time of trouble he shall hide me 
 in his pavilion; in the secret of his tabernacle shall he 
 hide me." She knelt down by the bed and said "Our 
 Father." She was beginning to add some words of her 
 own now. She had heard them pray so in Christian 
 Endeavor in the sentence prayers. She wished she knew 
 more about God, and His Book. She had had so little 
 time to ask or think about it. Life seemed all one rush 
 for clothes and position. 
 
 At supper-time Lizzie came home much excited. She 
 had been in hot water all the afternoon. The girls had 
 said at lunch-time that the manager was angry with 
 Bessie, and had discharged her. She found her coat and 
 hat, and had brought them home. The pocketbook was 
 missing. There was only fifteen cents in it; but Lizzie 
 was much disturbed, and so was the grandmother. They 
 had a quiet consultation in the kitchen; and, when the
 
 146 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 aunt came, there was another whispered conversation 
 among the three. 
 
 EHzabeth felt disapproval in the air. Aunt Nan came, 
 and sat down beside her, and talked very coldly about 
 expenses and being dependent upon one's relatives, and 
 let her understand thoroughly that she could not sit 
 around and do nothing; but Elizabeth answered by tell- 
 ing her how the manager had been treating her. The 
 aunt then gave her a dose of worldly wisdom, which made 
 the girl shrink into herself. It needed only Lizzie's loud- 
 voiced exhortations to add to her misery and make her 
 feel ready to do anything. Supper was a most unpleasant 
 meal. At last the grandmother spoke up. 
 
 **Well, Bessie," she said firmly, ''we've decided, all of 
 us, that, if you are going to be stubborn about this, some- 
 thing will have to be done; and I think the best thing is 
 for you to go to Mrs. Bailey and see what she'll do for you. 
 It's her business, anyway." 
 
 Elizabeth's cheeks were very red. She said nothing. 
 She let them go on with the arrangements. Lizzie went 
 and got her best hat, and tried it on Elizabeth to see 
 how she would look, and produced a silk waist from her 
 store of garments, and a spring jacket. It wasn't very 
 warm, it is true; but Lizzie explained that the occasion 
 demanded strenuous measures, and the jacket was un- 
 doubtedly stylish, which was the main thing to be con- 
 sidered. One could afford to be cold if one was stylish. 
 
 Lizzie was up early the next morning. She had agreed 
 to put Elizabeth in battle-array for her visit to Ritten- 
 house Square. Elizabeth submitted meekly to her bor- 
 rowed adornings. Her hair was brushed over her face, 
 and curled on a hot iron, and brushed backward in a per- 
 fect mat, and then puffed out in a bigger pompadour
 
 ELIZABETH^S DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE 147 
 
 than usual. The silk waist was put on with Lizzie^s best 
 skirt, and she was adjured not to let that drag. Then 
 the best hat with the cheap pink plumes was set atop the 
 elaborate coiffure; the jacket was put on; and a pair of 
 Lizzie's long silk gloves were struggled into. They were 
 a trifle large when on, but to the hands unaccustomed to 
 gloves they were like being run into a mould. 
 
 Elizabeth stood it all until she was pronounced com- 
 plete. Then she came and stood in front of the cheap 
 little glass, and surveyed herself. There were blisters in 
 the glass that twisted her head into a grotesque shape. 
 The hairpins stuck into her head. Lizzie had tied a 
 spotted veil tight over her nose and eyes. The collar of 
 the silk waist was frayed, and cut her neck. The skirt- 
 band was too tight, and the gloves were torture. Eliza- 
 beth turned slowly, and went down-stairs, past the 
 admiring aunt and grandmother, who exclaimed at the 
 girl's beauty, now that she was attired to their mind, and 
 encouraged her by saying they were sure her grandmother 
 would want to do something for so pretty a girl. 
 
 Lizzie called out to her not to worry, as she flew for her 
 car. She said she had heard there was a variety show in 
 town where they wanted a girl who could shoot. If she 
 didn't succeed with her grandmother, they would try and 
 get her in at the show. The girls at the store knew a 
 man who had charge of it. They said he liked pretty 
 girls, and they thought would be glad to get her. Indeed, 
 Mary James had promised to speak to him last night, and 
 would let her know to-day about it. It would likely be 
 a job more suited to her cousin's liking. 
 
 Elizabeth shuddered. Another man! Would he be 
 like all the rest? — all the rest save one! 
 
 She walked a few steps in the direction she had been
 
 148 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 told to go, and then turned resolutely around, and came 
 back. The watching grandmother felt her heart sink. 
 What was this headstrong girl going to do next? Rebel 
 again? 
 
 ^'What's the matter, Bessie?" she asked, meeting her 
 anxiously at the door. "It's bad luck to turn back when 
 you've started." 
 
 "I can't go this way," said the girl excitedly. "It's 
 all a cheat. I'm not like this. It isn't mine, and I'm 
 not going in it. I must have my own clothes and be 
 myself when I go to see her. If she doesn't like me and 
 want me, then I can take Robin and go back." And like 
 another David burdened with Saul's armor she came back 
 to get her little sling and stones. 
 
 She tore off the veil, and the sticky gloves from her 
 cold hands, and all the finery of silk waist and belt, and 
 donned her old plain blue coat and skirt in which she had 
 arrived in Philadelphia. They had been frugally brushed 
 and sponged, and made neat for a working dress. Eliza- 
 beth felt that they belonged to her. Under the jacket, 
 which fortunately was long enough to hide her waist, she 
 buckled her belt with the two pistols. Then she took 
 the battered old felt hat from the closet, and tried to 
 fasten it on; but the pompadour interfered. Relentlessly 
 she pulled down the work of art that Lizzie had created, 
 and brushed and combed her long, thick hair into sub- 
 jection again, and put it in its long braid down her back. 
 Her grandmother should see her just as she was. She 
 should know what kind of a girl belonged to her. Then, 
 if she chose to be a real grandmother, well and good. 
 
 Mrs. Brady was much disturbed in mind when Eliza- 
 beth came down-stairs. She exclaimed in horror, and 
 tired to force the girl to go back, telling her it was a shame
 
 Elizabeth's declaration of independence 149 
 
 and disgrace to go in such garments into the sacred pre- 
 cincts of Rittenhouse Square; but the girl was not to be 
 turned back. She would not even wait till her aunt and 
 Lizzie came home. She would go now, at once. 
 
 Mrs. Brady sat down in her rocking-chair in despair 
 for full five minutes after she had watched the reprehen- 
 sible girl go down the street. She had not been so com- 
 pletely beaten since the day when her own Bessie left the 
 house and went away to a wild West to die in her own 
 time and way. The grandmother shed a few tears. 
 This girl was like her own Bessie, and she could not help 
 loving her, though there was a streak of something else 
 about her that made her seem above them all; and that 
 was hard to bear. It must be the Bailey streak, of course. 
 Mrs. Brady did not admire the Baileys, but she was 
 obliged to reverence them. 
 
 If she had watched or followed Elizabeth, she would 
 have been still more horrified. The girl went straight 
 to the corner grocery, and demanded her own horse, 
 handing back to the man the dollar he had paid her last 
 Saturday night, and saying she had need of the horse at 
 once. After some parley, in which she showed her ability 
 to stand her own ground, the boy unhitched the horse 
 from the wagon, and got her own old saddle for her from 
 the stable. Then Elizabeth mounted her horse and rode 
 away to Rittenhouse Square.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 ANOTHER GRANDMOTHER 
 
 Elizabeth's idea in taking the horse along with her 
 was to have all her armor on, as a warrior goes out to 
 meet the foe. If this grandmother proved impossible, 
 why, then so long as she had life and breath and a horse 
 she could flee. The world was wide, and the West was 
 still open to her. She could flee back to the wilderness 
 that gave her breath. 
 
 The old horse stopped gravely and disappointedly 
 before the tall, aristocratic house in Rittenhouse Square. 
 He had hoped that city life was now to end, and that he 
 and his dear mistress were to travel back to their beloved 
 prairies. No amount of oats could ever make up to him 
 for his freedom, and the quiet, and the hills. He had a 
 feeling that he should like to go back home and die. He 
 had seen enough of the world. 
 
 She fastened the halter to a ring in the sidewalk, which 
 surprised him. The grocer's boy never fastened him. 
 He looked up questioningly at the house, but saw no 
 reason why his mistress should go in there. It was not 
 familiar ground. Koffee and Sons never came up this 
 way. 
 
 Elizabeth, as she crossed the sidewalk and mounted 
 the steps before the formidable carved doors, felt that 
 here was the last hope of finding an earthly habitation. 
 If this failed her, then there was the desert, and starva- 
 tion, and a long, long sleep. But while the echo of the 
 
 150
 
 ANOTHER GRANDMOTHER 151 
 
 bell still sounded through the high-ceiled hall there 
 came to her the words: ''Let not your heart be troubled. 
 ... In my Father's house are many mansions; if it were 
 not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place 
 for you. ... I will come again and receive you.'' How 
 sweet that was! Then, even if she died on the desert, 
 there was a home prepared for her. So much she had 
 learned in Christian Endeavor meeting. 
 
 The stately butler let her in. He eyed her question- 
 ingly at first, and said madam was not up yet; but Eliza- 
 beth told him she would wait. 
 
 "Is she sick?" asked Elizabeth with a strange constric- 
 tion about her heart. 
 
 "0 no, she is not up yet, miss," said the kind old 
 butler; ''she never gets up before this. You're from 
 Mrs. Sands, I suppose." Poor soul, for once his butler 
 eyes had been mistaken. He thought she was the little 
 errand-girl from Madam Bailey's modiste. 
 
 "No, I'm just Elizabeth," said the girl, smiling. She 
 felt that this man, whoever he was, was not against her. 
 He was old, and he had a kind look. 
 
 He still thought she meant she was not the modiste, 
 just her errand-girl. Her quaint dress and the long 
 braid down her back made her look like a child. 
 
 "I'll tell her you've come. Be seated,'^ said the 
 butler, and gave her a chair in the dim hall just opposite 
 the parlor door, where she had a glimpse of elegance such 
 as she had never dreamed existed. She tried to think 
 how it must be to live in such a room and walk on velvet. 
 The carpet was deep and rich. She did not know it was 
 a rug, nor that it was woven in some poor peasant's home 
 and then was brought here years afterward at a fabulous 
 price. She only knew it was beautiful in its silvery sheen,
 
 152 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 with gleaming colors through it like jewels in the 
 dew. 
 
 On through another open doorway she caught a glimpse 
 of a painting on the wall. It was a man as large as life, 
 sitting in a chair; and the face and attitude were her 
 father's — her father at his best. She was fairly startled. 
 Who was it? Could it be her father? And how had they 
 made this picture of him? He must be changed in those 
 twenty years he had been gone from home. 
 
 Then the butler came back, and before he could speak 
 she pointed toward the picture. ''Who is it?" she asked. 
 
 ''That, miss? That's Mr. John, Madam's husband 
 that's dead a good many years now. But I remember 
 him well." 
 
 "Could I look at it? He is so much like my father." 
 She walked rapidly over the ancient rug, unheeding 
 its beauties, while the wondering butler followed a 
 trifle anxiously. This was unprecedented. Mrs. Sands's 
 errand-girls usually knew their place. 
 
 "Madam said you was to come right up to her room," 
 said the butler pointedly. But Elizabeth stood rooted 
 to the ground, studying the picture. The butler had to 
 repeat the message. She smiled and turned to follow 
 him, and as she did so saw on a side wall the portraits of 
 two boys. 
 
 "Who are they?" she pointed swiftly. They were 
 much like her own two brothers. 
 
 "Them are Mr. John and Mr. James, Madam's two sons. 
 They's both of them dead now," said the butler. "At 
 least, Mr. James is, I'm sure. He died two years ago. 
 But you better come right up. Madam will be wonder- 
 ing." 
 
 She followed the old man up the velvet-shod stairs
 
 ANOTHER GRANDMOTHER 153 
 
 that gave back no sound from footfall, and pondered as 
 she went. Then that was her father, that boy with the 
 beautiful face and the heavy wavy hair tossed back 
 from his forehead, and the haughty, imperious, don't- 
 care look. And here was where he had lived. Here 
 amid all this luxury. 
 
 Like a flash came the quick contrast of the home in 
 which he had died, and a great wave of reverence for her 
 father rolled over her. From such a home and such sur- 
 roundings it would not have been strange if he had 
 grown weary of the rough life out West, and deserted his 
 wife, who was beneath him in station. But he had not. 
 He had stayed by her all the years. True, he had not been 
 of much use to her, and much of the time had been but 
 a burden and anxiety; but he had stayed and loved her — 
 when he was sober. She forgave him his many trying 
 ways, his faultfindings with her mother's many little 
 blunders — no wonder, when he came from this place. 
 
 The butler tapped on a door at the head of the stairs, 
 and a maid swung it open. 
 
 ''Why, you're not the girl Mrs. Sands sent the other 
 day," said a querulous voice from a mass of lace-ruffled 
 pillows on the great bed. 
 
 ''I am Elizabeth," said the girl, as if that were full 
 explanation. 
 
 ''Elizabeth? Elizabeth who? I don't see why she 
 sent another girl. Are you sure you will understand the 
 directions? They're very particular, for I want my frock 
 ready for to-night without fail." The woman sat up, 
 leaning on one elbow. Her lace nightgown and pale- 
 blue silk dressing-sack fell away from a round white arm 
 that did not look as if it belonged to a very old lady. 
 Her gray hair was becomingly arranged, and she was
 
 154 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 extremely pretty, with small features. Elizabeth looked 
 and marvelled. Like a flash came the vision of the other 
 grandmother at the wash-tub. The contrast was start- 
 ling. 
 
 ''I am Elizabeth Bailey/^ said the girl quietly, as if she 
 would break a piece of hard news gently. *'My father 
 was your son John." 
 
 ''The idea!'' said the new grandmother, and promptly 
 fell back upon her pillows with her hand upon her heart. 
 ''John, John, my little John. No one has mentioned 
 his name to me for years and years. He never writes to 
 me." She put up a lace-trimmed handkerchief, and 
 sobbed. 
 
 "Father died five years ago," said Elizabeth. 
 
 "You wicked girl!" said the maid. "Can't you see 
 that Madam can't bear such talk? Go right out of the 
 room!" The maid rushed up with smelling-salts and a 
 glass of water, and Elizabeth in distress came and stood 
 by the bed. 
 
 "I'm sorry I made you feel bad, grandmother," she 
 said when she saw that the fragile, childish creature on 
 the bed was recovering somewhat. 
 
 "What right have you to call me that? Grandmother, 
 indeed! I'm not so old as that. Besides, how do I know 
 you belong to me? If John is dead, your mother better 
 look after you. I'm sure I'm not responsible for you. 
 It's her business. She wheedled John away from his 
 home, and carried him off to that awful West, and never 
 let him write to me. She has done it all, and now she 
 may bear the consequences. I suppose she has sent you 
 here to beg, but she has made a mistake. I shall not 
 have a thing to do with her or her children." 
 
 "Grandmother!" EHzabeth's eyes flashed as they had
 
 ANOTHER GRANDMOTHER 155 
 
 done to the other grandmother a few hours before. '' You 
 must not talk so. I won't hear it. I wouldn't let Grand- 
 mother Brady talk about my father, and you can't talk 
 so about mother. She was my mother, and I loved her, 
 and so did father love her; and she worked hard to keep 
 him and take care of him when he drank years and years, 
 and didn't have any money to help her. Mother was 
 only eighteen when she married father, and you ought not 
 to blame her. She didn't have a nice home like this. 
 But she was good and dear, and now she is dead. Father 
 and mother are both dead, and all the other children. A 
 man killed my brother, and then as soon as he was buried 
 he came and wanted me to go with him. He was an awful 
 man, and I was afraid, and took my brother's horse and 
 ran away. I rode all this long way because I was afraid 
 of that man, and I wanted to get to some of my own folks, 
 who would love me, and let me work for them, and let 
 me go to school and learn something. But I wish now I 
 had stayed out there and died. I could have lain down 
 in the sage-brush, and a wild beast would have killed me 
 perhaps, and that would be a great deal better than this; 
 for Grandmother Brady does not understand, and you 
 do not want me; but in my Father's house in heaven 
 there are many mansions, and He went to prepare a place 
 for me; so I guess I will go back to the desert, and per- 
 haps He will send for me. Good-by, grandmother." 
 
 Then before the astonished woman in the bed could 
 recover her senses from this remarkable speech Elizabeth 
 turned and walked majestically from the room. She 
 was slight and not very tall, but in the strength of her 
 pride and purity she looked almost majestic to the awe- 
 struck maid and the bewildered woman.
 
 156 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 Down the stairs walked the girl, feeling that all the wide 
 world was against her. She would never again try to get 
 a friend. She had not met a friend except in the desert. 
 One man had been good to her, and she had let him go 
 away; but he belonged to another woman, and she might 
 not let him stay. There was just one thing to be thank- 
 ful for. She had knowledge of her Father in heaven, and 
 she knew what Christian Endeavor meant. She could 
 take that with her out into the desert, and no one could 
 take it from her. One wish she had, but maybe that was 
 too much to hope for. If she could have had a Bible of 
 her own! She had no money left. Nothing but her 
 mother's wedding-ring, the papers, and the envelope 
 that had contained the money the man had given her when 
 he left. She could not part with them, unless perhaps 
 some one would take the ring and keep it until she could 
 buy it back. But she would wait and hope. 
 
 She walked by the old butler with her hand on her 
 pistol. She did not intend to let any one detain her now. 
 He bowed pleasantly, and opened the door for her, how- 
 ever; and she marched down the steps to her horse. But 
 just as she was about to mount and ride away into the 
 unknown where no grandmother, be she Brady or Bailey, 
 would ever be able to search her out, no matter how hard 
 she tried, the door suddenly opened again, and there was 
 a great commotion. The maid and the old butler both 
 flew out, and laid hands upon her. She dropped the 
 bridle, and seized her pistol, covering them both with 
 its black, forbidding nozzle. 
 
 They stopped, trembling, but the butler bravely stood 
 his ground. He did not know why he was to detain this 
 extraordinary young person, but he felt sure something 
 was wrong. Probably she was a thief, and had taken
 
 ANOTHER GRANDMOTHER 157 
 
 some of Madam's jewels. He could call the police. 
 He opened his mouth to do so when the maid ex- 
 plained. 
 
 *' Madam wants you to come back. She didn't under- 
 stand. She wants to see you and ask about her son. 
 You must come, or you will kill her. She has heart- 
 trouble, and you must not excite her." 
 
 Elizabeth put the pistol back into its holster, and, 
 picking up the bridle again, fastened it in the ring, saying 
 simply, "I will come back." 
 
 ''What do you want?" she asked abruptly when she 
 returned to the bedroom. 
 
 ''Don't you know that's a disrespectful way to speak?" 
 asked the woman querulously. "What did you have to 
 get into a temper for, and go off like that without telling 
 me anything about my son? Sit down, and tell me all 
 about it." 
 
 "I'm sorry, grandmother," said Elizabeth, sitting 
 down. "I thought you didn't want me and I better go." 
 
 "Well, the next time wait until I send you. What 
 kind of a thing have you got on, anyway? That's a queer 
 sort of a hat for a girl to wear. Take it off. You look 
 like a rough boy with that on. You make me think of 
 John when he had been out disobeying me." 
 
 Elizabeth took off the offending headgear, and revealed 
 her smoothly parted, thick brown hair in its long braid 
 down her back. 
 
 "Why, you're rather a pretty girl if you were fixed up," 
 said the old lady, sitting up with interest now. "I can't 
 remember your mother, but I don't think she had fine 
 features like that." 
 
 "They said I looked like father," said Elizabeth. 
 
 "Did they? Well, I believe it's true," with satisfac-
 
 158 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 tion. ^'I couldn't bear you if you looked like those low- 
 down '^ 
 
 '' Grandmother! '^ Elizabeth stood up, and flashed her 
 Bailey eyes. 
 
 *' You needn't 'grandmother' me all the time," said the 
 lady petulantly. ''But you look quite handsome when 
 you say it. Take off that ill-fitting coat. It isn't thick 
 enough for winter, anyway. What in the world have 
 you got round your waist? A belt? Why, that's a 
 man's belt! And what have you got in it? Pistols? 
 Horrors! Marie, take them away quick! I shall faint! 
 I never could bear to be in a room with one. My husband 
 used to have one on his closet shelf, and I never went 
 near it, and always locked the room when he w^as out. 
 You must put them out in the hall. I cannot breathe 
 where pistols are. Now sit down and tell me all about 
 it, how old you are, and how you got here." 
 
 Elizabeth surrendered her pistols with hesitation. 
 She felt that she must obey her grandmother, but was not 
 altogether certain whether it was safe for her to be weapon- 
 less until she was sure this was friendly ground. 
 
 At the demand she began back as far as she could 
 remember, and told the story of her life, pathetically, 
 simply, without a single claim to pity, yet so earnestly 
 and vividly that the grandmother, lying with her eyes 
 closed, forgot herself completely, and let the tears 
 trickle unbidden and unheeded down her well-preserved 
 cheeks. 
 
 When Elizabeth came to the graves in the moonlight, 
 she gasped, and sobbed: ''O, Johnny, Johnny, my Httle 
 Johhny! Why did you always be such a bad, bad boy?" 
 and when the ride in the desert was described, and the 
 man from whom she fled, the grandmother held her
 
 ANOTHER GRANDMOTHER 159 
 
 breath, and said, ''O, how fearful!" Her interest in the 
 girl was growing, and kept at white heat during the whole 
 of the story. 
 
 There was one part of her experience, however, that 
 Elizabeth passed over lightly, and that was the meeting 
 with George Trescott Benedict. Instinctively she felt 
 that this experience would not find a sympathetic listener. 
 She passed it over by merely saying that she had met a 
 kind gentleman from the East who was lost, and that 
 they had ridden together for a few miles until they 
 reached a town; and he had telegraphed to his friends, 
 and gone on his way. She said nothing about the money 
 he had lent to her, for she shrank from speaking about 
 him more than was necessary. She felt that her grand- 
 mother might feel as the old woman of the ranch had felt 
 about their travelling together. She left it to be inferred 
 that she might have had a little money with her from 
 home. At least, the older woman asked no questions 
 about how she secured provisions for the way. 
 
 When Elizabeth came to her Chicago experience, her 
 grandmother clasped her hands as if a serpent had been 
 mentioned, and said: "How degrading! You certainly 
 would have been justified in shooting the whole company. 
 I wonder such places are allowed to exist!'' But Marie 
 sat with large eyes of wonder, and retailed the story over 
 again in the kitchen afterwards for the benefit of the cook 
 and the butler, so that Elizabeth became henceforth a 
 heroine among them. 
 
 Elizabeth passed on to her Philadelphia experience, 
 and found that here her grandmother was roused to blaz- 
 ing indignation, but the thing that roused her was the fact 
 that a Bailey should serve behind a counter in a ten-cent 
 store. She lifted her hands, and uttered a moan of real
 
 160 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 pain, and went on at such a rate that the smelling-salts 
 had to be brought into requisition again. 
 
 When Elizabeth told of her encounter with the manager 
 in the cellar, the grandmother said: ''How disgusting! 
 The impertinent creature! He ought to be sued. I will 
 consult the lawyer about the matter. What did you say 
 his name was? Marie, write that down. And so, dear, 
 you did quite right to come to me. I've been looking at 
 you while you talked, and I believe you'll be a pretty girl 
 if you are fixed up. Marie, go to the telephone, and call 
 up Blandeaux, and tell him to send up a hair-dresser at 
 once. I want to see how Miss EHzabeth will look with 
 her hair done low in one of those new coils. I believe it 
 will be becoming. I should have tried it long ago my- 
 self; only it seems a trifle too youthful for hair that is 
 beginning to turn gray." 
 
 Elizabeth watched her grandmother in wonder. Here 
 truly was a new phase of woman. She did not care about 
 great facts, but only about little things. Her life was 
 made up of the great pursuit of fashion, just Hke Lizzie's. 
 Were people in cities all alike? No, for he, the one man 
 she had met in the wilderness, had not seemed to care. 
 Maybe, though, when he got back to the city he did care. 
 She sighed and turned toward the new grandmother. 
 
 "Now I have told you everything, grandmother. 
 Shall I go away? I wanted to go to school; but I see that 
 it costs a great deal of money, and I don't want to be a 
 burden on any one. I came here, not to ask you to take 
 me in, because I did not want to trouble you; but I thought 
 before I went away I ought to see you once because — 
 because you are my grandmother." 
 
 "I've never been a grandmother," said the little woman 
 of the world reflectively, "but I don't know but it would
 
 ANOTHER GRANDMOTHER 161 
 
 be rather nice. Fd like to make you into a pretty girl, 
 and take you out into society. That would be something 
 new to live for. I'm not very pretty myself any more, 
 but I can see that you will be. Do you wear blue or pink? 
 I used to wear pink myself, but I believe you could wear 
 either when you get your complexion in shape. YouVe 
 tanned it horribly, but it may come out all right. I think 
 you'll take. You say you want to go to school. Why, 
 certainly, I suppose that will be necessary; living out in 
 that barbarous, uncivilized region, of course you don't 
 know much. You seem to speak correctly, but John 
 always was particular about his speech. He had a tutor 
 when he was little who tripped him up every mistake he 
 made. That was the only thing that tutor was good for; 
 he was a linguist. We found out afterwards he was 
 terribly wild, and drank. He did John more harm than 
 good. Marie, I shall want Elizabeth to have the rooms 
 next mine. Ring for Martha to see that everything is in 
 order. Elizabeth, did you ever have your hands mani- 
 cured? You have a pretty-shaped hand. I'll have the 
 woman attend to it when she comes to shampoo your 
 hair and put it up. Did you bring any clothes along? 
 Of course not. You couldn't on horseback. I suppose 
 you had your trunk sent by express. No trunk? No 
 express? No railroad? How barbarous! How John 
 must have suffered, poor fellow! He, so used to every 
 luxury! Well, I don't see that it was my fault. I 
 gave him everything he wanted except his wife, and 
 he took her without my leave. Poor fellow, poor fel- 
 low!'' 
 
 Mrs. Bailey in due time sent Elizabeth off to the suite of 
 rooms that she said were to be hers exclusively, and arose 
 to bedeck herself for another day. Elizabeth was a new
 
 162 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 toy, and she anticipated playing with her. It put new 
 zest into a life that had grown monotonous. 
 
 Elizabeth, meanwhile, was surveying her quarters, and 
 wondering what Lizzie would think if she could see her. 
 According to orders, the coachman had taken Robin to 
 the stable, and he was already rolling in all the luxuries 
 of a horse of the aristocracy, and congratulating himself 
 on the good taste of his mistress to select such a stopping- 
 place. For his part he was now satisfied not to move 
 further. This was better than the wilderness any day. 
 Oats like these, and hay such as this, were not to be 
 found on the plains. 
 
 Toward evening the grave butler, with many a depre- 
 catory glance at the neighborhood, arrived at the door 
 of Mrs. Brady, and delivered himself of the following 
 message to that astonished lady, backed by her daughter 
 and her granddaughter, with their ears stretched to the 
 utmost to hear every syllable: 
 
 ''Mrs. Merrill Wilton Bailey sends word that her grand- 
 daughter, Miss Elizabeth, has reached her home safely, 
 and will remain with her. Miss Elizabeth will come 
 sometime to see Mrs. Brady, and thank her for her kind- 
 ness during her stay with her." 
 
 The butler bowed, and turned away with rehef. His 
 dignity and social standing had not been so taxed by the 
 family demands in years. He was glad he might shake 
 off the dust of Flora Street forever. He felt for the 
 coachman. He would probably have to drive the young 
 lady down here sometime, according to that message. 
 
 Mrs. Brady, her daughter, and Lizzie stuck their heads 
 out into the lamplighted street, and watched the dignified 
 butler out of sight. Then they went in and sat down in 
 three separate stages of relief and astonishment.
 
 ANOTHER GRANDMOTHER 163 
 
 "Fer the land sakes!" ejaculated the grandmother. 
 *'Well, now, if that don't beat all! "then after a minute: 
 ''The impertinent fellow! And the impidence of the 
 woman! Thank me fer my kindness to me own grand- 
 child! I'd thank her to mind her business, but then 
 that's just like her." 
 
 ''Her nest is certainly well feathered," said Aunt Nan 
 enviously. "I only wish Lizzie had such a chance." 
 
 Said Lizzie: "It's awful queer, her looking like that, 
 too, in that crazy rig! Well, I'm glad she's gone, fer she 
 was so awful queer it was jest fierce. She talked religion 
 a lot to the girls, and then they laughed at her behind 
 her back; and they kep' a telling me I'd be a missionary 
 'fore long if she stayed with us. I went to Mr. Wray, the 
 manager, and told him my cousin was awfully shy, and 
 she sent word she wanted to be excused fer running away 
 like that. He kind of colored up, and said 'twas all right, 
 and she might come back and have her old place if she 
 wanted, and he'd say no more about it. I told him I'd 
 tell her. But I guess her acting up won't do me a bit of 
 harm. The girls say he'll make up to me now. Wish he 
 would. I'd have a fine time. It's me turn to have me 
 wages raised, anyway. He said if Bess and I would come 
 to-morrow ready to stay in the evening, he'd take us to a 
 show that beat everything he ever saw in Philadelphia. 
 I mean to make him take me, anyway. I'm just glad she's 
 out of the way. She wasn't like the rest of us." 
 
 Said Mrs. Brady: "It's the Bailey in her. But she said 
 she'd come back and see me, didn't she?" and the grand- 
 mother in her meditated over that fact for several minutes.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 IN A NEW WORLD 
 
 Meantime the panorama of Elizabeth ^s Hfe passed on 
 into more peaceful scenes. By means of the telephone 
 and the maid a lot of new and beautiful garments were 
 provided for her, which fitted perfectly, and which be- 
 wildered her not a Httle until they were explained by 
 Marie. Elizabeth had her meals up-stairs until these 
 things had arrived and she had put them on. The texture 
 of the garments was fine and soft, and they were rich 
 with embroidery and lace. The flannels were as soft 
 as the down in a milkweed pod, and everything was of 
 the best. Elizabeth found herself wishing she might 
 share them with Lizzie, — Lizzie who adored rich and 
 beautiful things, and who had shared her meagre outfit 
 with her. She mentioned this wistfully to her grand- 
 mother, and in a fit of childish generosity that lady said: 
 ''Certainly, get her what you wish. I'll take you down- 
 town some day, and you can pick out some nice things 
 for them all. I hate to be under obligations." 
 
 A dozen ready-made dresses had been sent out before 
 the first afternoon was over, and Elizabeth spent the rest 
 of the day in trying on and walking back and forth in 
 front of her grandmother. At last two or three were 
 selected which it was thought would ''do'* until the 
 dressmaker could be called in to help, and EUzabeth was 
 clothed and allowed to come down into the life of the 
 household. 
 
 164
 
 IN A NEW WORLD 165 
 
 It was not a large household. It consisted of the grand- 
 mother, her dog, and the servants. EHzabeth fitted into 
 it better than she had feared. It seemed pleasanter to 
 her than the house on Flora Street. There was more 
 room, and more air, and more quiet. With her mountain 
 breeding she could not get her breath in a crowd. 
 
 She was presently taken in a luxurious carriage, drawn 
 by two beautiful horses, to a large department store, 
 where she sat by the hour and watched her grandmother 
 choose things for her. Another girl might have gone half 
 wild over the delightful experience of being able to have 
 anything in the shops. Not so Elizabeth. She watched 
 it all apathetically, as if the goods displayed about had 
 been the leaves upon the trees set forth for her admiration. 
 She could wear but one dress at once, and one hat. Why 
 were so many necessary? Her main hope lay in the 
 words her grandmother had spoken about sending her 
 to school. 
 
 The third day of her stay in Rittenhouse Square, 
 Elizabeth had reminded her of it, and the grandmother 
 had said half impatiently: ''Yes, yes, child; you shall go 
 of course to a finishing school. That will be necessary. 
 But first I must get you fixed up. You have scarcely 
 anything to put on.'' So Elizabeth subsided. 
 
 At last there dawned a beautiful Sabbath when, the 
 wardrobe seemingly complete, Elizabeth was told to 
 array herself for church, as they were going that morning. 
 With great delight and thanksgiving she put on what she 
 was told; and, when she looked into the great French plate 
 mirror after Marie had put on the finishing touches, she 
 was astonished at herself. It was all true, after all. She 
 was a pretty girl. 
 
 She looked down at the beautiful gown of finest broad-
 
 166 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 cloth, with the exquisite finish that only the best tailors 
 can put on a garment, and wondered at herself. The 
 very folds of dark-green cloth seemed to bring a grace 
 into her movements. The green velvet hat with its long 
 curling plumes of green and cream-color seemed to be 
 resting lovingly above the beautiful hair that was arranged 
 so naturally and becomingly. 
 
 Elizabeth wore her lovely ermine collar and muff with- 
 out ever knowing they were costly. They all seemed so 
 fitting and quiet and simple, so much less obtrusive 
 than Lizzie's pink silk waist and cheap pink plumes. 
 Elizabeth liked it, and walked to church beside her 
 grandmother with a happy feeling in her heart. 
 
 The church was just across the Square. Its tall brown 
 stone spire and arched doorways attracted Elizabeth 
 when she first came to the place. Now she entered with 
 a kind of delight. 
 
 It was the first time she had ever been to a Sabbath 
 morning regular service in church. The Christian En- 
 deavor had been as much as Lizzie had been able to 
 stand. She said she had to work too hard during the 
 week to waste so much time on Sunday in church. ''The 
 Sabbath was made for man" and ''for rest," she had 
 quoted glibly. For the first time in her life since she 
 left Montana Elizabeth felt as if she had a real home and 
 was like other people. She looked around shyly to see 
 whether perchance her friend of the desert might be sit- 
 ting near, but no familiar face met her gaze. Then she 
 settled back, and gave herself up to delight in the service. 
 
 The organ was playing softly, low, tender music. She 
 learned afterward that the music was Handel's "Largo." 
 She did not know that the organ was one of the finest in 
 the city, nor that the organist was one of the most skilful
 
 IN A NEW WORLD 167 
 
 to be had; she knew only that the music seemed to take 
 her soul and lift it up above the earth so that heaven was 
 all around her, and the very clouds seemed singing to her. 
 Then came the processional, with the wonderful voices 
 of the choir-boys sounding far off, and then nearer. It 
 would be impossible for any one who had been accus- 
 tomed all his life to these things to know how it affected 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 It seemed as though the Lord Himself was leading the 
 girl in a very special way. At scarcely any other church 
 in a fashionable quarter of the great city would Elizabeth 
 haA^e heard preaching so exactly suited to her needs. 
 The minister was one of those rare men who lived with 
 God, and talked with Him daily. He had one pecu- 
 liarity which marked him from all other preachers, 
 Elizabeth heard afterward. He would turn and talk 
 with God in a gentle, sweet, conversational tone right in 
 the midst of his sermon. It made the Lord seem very 
 real and very near. 
 
 If he had not been the great and brilliant preacher of 
 an old established church, and revered by all denomina- 
 tions as well as his own, the minister would have been 
 called eccentric and have been asked to resign, because 
 his religion was so very personal that it became em- 
 barrassing to some. However, his rare gifts, and his 
 remarkable consecration and independence in doing 
 what he thought right, had produced a most unusual 
 church for a fashionable neighborhood. 
 
 Most of his church-members were in sympathy with 
 him, and a wonderful work was going fonvard right in 
 the heart of Sodom, unhampered by fashion or form or 
 class distinctions. It is true there were some who, like 
 Madam Bailey, sat calmly in their seats, and let the min-
 
 168 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 ister attend to the preaching end of the service without 
 ever bothering their thoughts as to what he was saying. 
 It was all one to them whether he prayed three times or 
 once, so the service got done at the usual hour. But the 
 majority were being led to see that there is such a thing 
 as a close and intimate walk with God upon this earth. 
 
 Into this church came Elizabeth, the sweet heathen, 
 eager to learn all that could be learned about the things 
 of the soul. She sat beside her grandmother, and drank 
 in the sermon, and bowed her lovely, reverent head 
 when she became aware that God was in the room and 
 was being spoken to by His servant. After the last echo 
 of the recessional had died away, and the bowed hush of 
 the congregation had grown into a quiet, well-bred com- 
 motion of the putting on of wTaps and the low Sabbath 
 greetings, Elizabeth turned to her grandmother. 
 
 ''Grandmother, may I please go* and ask that man 
 some questions? He said just what I have been longing 
 and longing to know, and I must ask him more. Nobody 
 else ever told me these things. Who is he? How does 
 he know it is all true?'' 
 
 The elder woman watched the eager, flushed face of 
 the girl; and her heart throbbed with pride that this 
 beautiful young thing belonged to her. She smiled in- 
 dulgently. 
 
 ''The rector, you mean? Why, I'll invite him to dinner 
 if you wish to talk with him. It's perfectly proper that 
 a young girl should understand about religion. It has a 
 most refining influence, and the Doctor is a charming 
 man. I'll invite his wife and daughter too. They move 
 in the best circles, and I have been meaning to ask them 
 for a long time. You might like to be confirmed. Some 
 do. It's a very pretty service. I was confirmed myself
 
 IN A NEW WORLD 169 
 
 when I was about your age. My mother thought it a 
 good thing for a girl before she went into society. Now, 
 just as you are a schoolgirl, is the proper time. I'll send 
 for him this week. He'll be pleased to know you are 
 interested in these things. He has some kind of a young 
 people's club that meets on Sunday. 'Christian Some- 
 thing' he calls it; I don't know just what, but he talks a 
 great deal about it, and wants every young person to 
 join. You might pay the dues, whatever they are, any- 
 way. I suppose it's for charity. It wouldn't be neces- 
 sary for you to attend the meetings, but it would please 
 the Doctor." 
 
 "Is it Christian Endeavor?" asked EHzabeth, with her 
 eyes sparkling. 
 
 "Something like that, I believe. Good morning, 
 Mrs. Schuyler. Lovely day, isn't it? for December. No, 
 I haven't been very well. No, I haven't been out for 
 several weeks. Charming service, wasn't it? The Doctor 
 grows more and more brilliant, I think. Mrs. Schuyler, 
 this is my granddaughter, Elizabeth. She has just come 
 from the West to live with me and complete her educa- 
 tion. I want her to know your daughter." 
 
 Elizabeth passed through the introduction as a neces- 
 sary interruption to her train of thought. As soon as 
 they were out upon the street again she began. 
 
 "Grandmother, was God in that church?" 
 
 "Dear me, child! What strange questions you do ask! 
 Why, yes, I suppose He was, in a way. God is every- 
 where, they say. Elizabeth, you had better wait until 
 you can talk these things over with a person whose busi- 
 ness it is. I never understood much about such ques- 
 tions. You look very nice in that shade of green, and 
 your hat is most becoming."
 
 170 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 So was the question closed for the time, but not put 
 out of the girl's thoughts. 
 
 The Christmas time had come and passed without 
 much notice on the part of Elizabeth, to whom it was an 
 unfamiliar festival. Mrs. Bailey had suggested that she 
 select some gifts for her ''relatives on her mother's side," 
 as she always spoke of the Bradys; and Elizabeth had 
 done so with alacrity, showing good sense and good taste 
 in her choice of gifts, as well as deference to the wishes of 
 the one to whom they were to be given. Lizzie, it is 
 true, was a trifle disappointed that her present was not 
 a gold watch or a diamond ring; but on the whole she 
 was pleased. 
 
 A new world opened before the feet of Elizabeth. 
 School was filled with wonder and delight. She absorbed 
 knowledge like a sponge in the water, and rushed eagerly 
 from one study to another, showing marvellous aptitude, 
 and bringing to every task the enthusiasm of a pleasure- 
 seeker. 
 
 Her growing intimacy with Jesus Christ through the 
 influence of the pastor who knew Him so well caused her 
 joy in life to blossom into loveliness. 
 
 The Bible she studied with the zest of a novel-reader, 
 for it was a novel to her; and daily, as she took her rides 
 in the park on Robin, now groomed into self-respecting 
 sleekness, and wearing a saddle of the latest approved 
 style, she marvelled over God's wonderful goodness to 
 her, just a maid of the wilderness. 
 
 So passed three beautiful years in peace and quietness. 
 Every month Elizabeth went to see her Grandmother 
 Brady, and to take some charming little gifts; and every 
 summer she and her Grandmother Bailey spent at some 
 of the fashionable watering-places or in the Catskills,
 
 IN A NEW WORLD 171 
 
 the girl always dressed in most exquisite taste, and as 
 sweetly indifferent to her clothes as a bird of the air or a 
 flower of the field. 
 
 The first pocket-money she had been given she saved 
 up, and before long had enough to send the forty dollars 
 to the address the man in the wilderness had given her. 
 But with it she sent no word. It was like her to think 
 she had no right. 
 
 She went out more and more with her grandmother 
 among the fashionable old families in Philadelphia 
 society, though as yet she was not supposed to be "out,'' 
 being still in school; but in all her goings she neither saw 
 nor heard of George Trescott Benedict. 
 
 Often she looked about upon the beautiful women that 
 came to her grandmother's house, who smiled and talked 
 to her, and wondered which of them might be the lady to 
 whom his heart was bound. She fancied she must be 
 most sweet and lovely in every way, else such as he could 
 not care for her; so she would pick out this one and that 
 one; and then, as some disagreeableness or glaring fault 
 would appear, she would drop that one for another. 
 There were only a few, after all, that she felt were good 
 enough for the man who had become her ideal. 
 
 But sometimes in her dreams he would come and talk 
 with her, and smile as he used to do when they rode 
 together; and he would lay his hand on the mane of her 
 horse — there were always the horses in her dreams. 
 She liked to think of it when she rode in the park, and to 
 think how pleasant it would be if he could be riding there 
 beside her, and they might talk of a great many things 
 that had happened since he left her alone. She felt she 
 would like to tell him of how she had found a friend in 
 Jesus Christ. He would be glad to know about it, she
 
 172 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 was sure. He seemed to be one who was interested in 
 such things, not like other people who were all engaged 
 in the world. 
 
 Sometimes she felt afraid something had happened to 
 him. He might have been thrown from that terrible 
 train and killed, perhaps; and no one know anything 
 about it. But as her experience grew wider, and she 
 travelled on the trains herself, of course this fear grew less. 
 She came to understand that the world was wide, and 
 many things might have taken him away from his 
 home. 
 
 Perhaps the money she had sent reached him safely, 
 but she had put in no address. It had not seemed right 
 that she should. It would seem to draw his attention to 
 her, and she felt *Hhe lady'^ would not like that. Per- 
 haps they were married by this time, and had gone far 
 away to some charmed land to live. Perhaps — a great 
 many things. Only this fact remained; he never came 
 any more into the horizon of her life; and therefore she 
 must try to forget him, and be glad that God had given 
 her a friend in him for her time of need. Some day in 
 the eternal home perhaps she would meet him and thank 
 him for his kindness to her, and then they might tell each 
 other all about the journey through the great wilderness 
 of earth after they had parted. The links in Elizabeth's 
 theology had been well supplied by this time, and her 
 belief in the hereafter was strong and simple like a child's. 
 
 She had one great longing, however, that he, her friend, 
 who had in a way been the first to help her toward higher 
 things, and to save her from the wilderness, might know 
 Jesus Christ as he had not known Him when they were 
 together. And so in her daily prayer she often talked 
 with her heavenly Father about him, until she came to
 
 IN A NEW WORLD 173 
 
 have an abiding faith that some day, somehow, he 
 would learn the truth about his Christ. 
 
 During the third season of EHzabeth's life in Phila- 
 delphia her grandmother decided that it was high time 
 to bring out this bud of promise, who was by this time 
 developing into a more beautiful girl than even her 
 fondest hopes had pictured. 
 
 So Elizabeth ''came out," and Grandmother Brady 
 read her doings and sayings in the society columns with 
 her morning coffee and an air of deep satisfaction. Aunt 
 Nan listened with her nose in the air. She could never 
 understand why Elizabeth should have privileges beyond 
 her Lizzie. It was the Bailey in her, of course, and mother 
 ought not to think well of it. But Grandmother Brady 
 felt that, while Elizabeth's success was doubtless due in 
 large part to the Bailey in her, still, she was a Brady, and 
 the Brady had not hindered her. It was a step upward 
 for the Bradys. 
 
 Lizzie listened, and with pride retailed at the ten-cent 
 store the doings of "my cousin, Elizabeth Bailey," and 
 the other girls listened with awe. 
 
 And so it came on to be the springtime of the third 
 year that Elizabeth had spent in Philadelphia.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 AN EVENTFUL PICNIC 
 
 It was summer and it was June. There was to be a 
 picnic, and Elizabeth was going. 
 
 Grandmother Brady had managed it. It seemed to 
 her that, if Elizabeth could go, her cup of pride would be 
 full to overflowing; so after much argument, pro and con, 
 with her daughter and Lizzie, she set herself down to 
 pen the invitation. Aunt Nan was decidedly against it. 
 She did not wish to have Lizzie outshone. She had been 
 working nights for two weeks on an elaborate organdie, 
 with pink roses all over it, for Lizzie to wear. It had 
 yards and yards of cheap lace and insertion, and a whole 
 bolt of pink ribbons of various, widths. The hat was a 
 marvel of impossible roses, just calculated for the worst 
 kind of a wreck if a thunder-shower should come up at a 
 Sunday-school picnic. Lizzie's mother was even thinking 
 of getting her a pink chiffon parasol to carry; but the 
 family treasury was well-nigh depleted, and it was doubt- 
 ful whether that would be possible. After all that, it 
 it did not seem pleasant to have Lizzie put in the shade 
 by a fine-lady cousin in silks and jewels. 
 
 But Grandmother Brady had waited long for her 
 triumph. She desired above all things to walk among 
 her friends, and introduce her granddaughter, Elizabeth 
 Bailey, and inadvertently remark: ''You must have seen 
 me granddaughter's name in the paper often, Mrs. Bab- 
 cock. She was giving a party in Rittenhouse Square 
 the other day." 
 
 174
 
 AN EVENTFUL PICNIC 175 
 
 Elizabeth would likely be married soon, and perhaps 
 go off somewhere away from Philadelphia — New York 
 or Europe, there was no telling what great fortune might 
 come to her. Now the time was ripe for triumph if ever, 
 and when things are ripe they must be picked. Mrs. 
 Brady proceeded to pick. 
 
 She gathered together at great pains pen, paper, and 
 ink. A pencil would be inadequate when the note was 
 going to Rittenhouse Square. She sat down when Nan 
 and Lizzie had left for their day's work, and constructed 
 her sentences with great care. 
 
 ^' Dear Bessie — ■' Elizabeth had never asked her not 
 to call her that, although she fairly detested the name. 
 But still it had been her mother's name, and was likely 
 dear to her grandmother. It seemed disloyalty to her 
 mother to suggest that she be called "Elizabeth." So 
 Grandmother Brady serenely continued to call her 
 "Bessie" to the end of her days. Elizabeth decided that 
 to care much about such little things, in a world where 
 there were so many great things, would be as bad as to 
 give one's mind entirely over to the pursuit of fashion. 
 
 The letter proceeded laboriously: 
 
 "Our Sunday school is going to have a picnic out to 
 Willow Grove. It's on Tuesday. We're going in the 
 trolley. I'd be pleased if you would go 'long with us. 
 We will spend the day, and take our dinner and supper 
 along, and wouldn't get home till late; so you could stay 
 overnight here with us, and not go back home till after 
 breakfast. You needn't bring no lunch; fer we've got a 
 lot of things planned, and it ain't worth while. But if 
 you wanted to bring some candy, you might. I ain't 
 got time to make any, and what you buy at our grocery
 
 176 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 might not be fine enough fer you. I want you to go real 
 bad. IVe never took my two granddaughters off to 
 anything yet, and your Grandmother Bailey has you to 
 things all the time. I hope you can manage to come. 
 I am going to pay all the expenses. Your old Christian 
 Deaver you used to 'tend is going to be there; so you'll 
 have a good time. Lizzie has a new pink organdie, with 
 roses on her hat; and we're thinking of getting her a pink 
 umbreller if it don't cost too much. The kind with 
 chiffon flounces on it. You'll have a good time, fer there's 
 lots of side-shows out to Willow Grove, and we're going 
 to see everything there is to see. There's going to be 
 some music too. A man with a name that sounds like 
 swearing is going to make -it. I don't remember it just 
 now, but you can see it advertised round on the trolley- 
 cars. He comes to Willow Grove every year. Now 
 please let me hear if you will go at once, as I want to 
 know how much cake to make. 
 
 *' Your loving grandmother, 
 
 ''Elizabeth Brady." 
 
 Elizabeth laughed and cried over this note. It pleased 
 her to have her grandmother show kindness to her. She 
 felt that whatever she did for Grandmother Brady was 
 in a sense showing her love to her own mother; so she 
 brushed aside several engagements, much to the annoy- 
 ance of her Grandmother Bailey, who could not under- 
 stand why she wanted to go down to Flora Street for 
 two days and a night just in the beginning of warm 
 weather. True, there was not much going on just now 
 between seasons, and Elizabeth could do as she pleased; 
 but she might get a fever in such a crowded neighborhood. 
 It wasn't in the least wise. However, if she must, she
 
 AN EVENTFUL PICNIC 177 
 
 must. Grandmother Bailey was on the whole lenient. 
 Elizabeth was too much of a success, and too wilUng to 
 please her in all things, for her to care to cross her wishes. 
 So Elizabeth wrote on her fine note-paper bearing the 
 Bailey crest in silver: 
 
 ^' Dear Grandmother: I shall be delighted to go to the 
 picnic with you, and I'll bring a nice big box of candy, 
 Huyler's best. I'm sure you'll think it's the best you 
 ever tasted. Don't get Lizzie a parasol; I'm going to 
 bring her one to surprise her. I'll be at the house by 
 eight o'clock. 
 
 " Your loving granddaughter, 
 
 ''Elizabeth.'* 
 
 Mrs. Brady read this note with satisfaction and handed 
 it over to her daughter to read with a gleam of triumph 
 in her eyes at the supper-table. She knew the gift of the 
 pink parasol would go far toward reconciling Aunt Nan 
 to the addition to their party. Elizabeth never did 
 things by halves, and the parasol would be all that could 
 possibly be desired without straining the family pocket- 
 book any further. 
 
 So Elizabeth went to the picnic in a cool white dimity, 
 plainly made, with tiny frills of itself, edged with narrow 
 lace that did not shout to the unknowing multitude, 
 ''I am real!" but was content with being so; and with a 
 white Panama hat adorned with only a white silken 
 scarf, but whose texture was possible only at a fabulous 
 price. The shape reminded Elizabeth of the old felt hat 
 belonging to her brother, which she had worn on her long 
 trip across the continent. She had put it on in the hat- 
 store one day; and her grandmother, when she found how
 
 178 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 exquisite a piece of weaving the hat was, at once purchased 
 it for her. It was styhsh to wear those soft hats in all 
 sorts of odd shapes. Madam Bailey thought it would 
 be just the thing for the seashore. 
 
 Her hair was worn in a low coil in her neck, making 
 the general appearance and contour of her head much 
 as it had been three years before. She wore no jewelry, 
 save the unobtrusive gold buckle at her belt and the plain 
 gold hatpin which fastened her hat. There was nothing 
 about her which marked her as one of the ''four hundred." 
 She did not even wear her gloves, but carried them in her 
 hand, and threw them carelessly upon the table when 
 she arrived in Flora Street. Long, soft white ones, they 
 lay there in their costly elegance beside Lizzie's post-card 
 album that the livery-stable man gave her on her birth- 
 day, all the long day while Elizabeth was at Willow 
 Grove, and Lizzie sweltered around under her pink 
 parasol in long white silk gloves. 
 
 Grandmother Brady surveyed Elizabeth with decided 
 disapproval. It seemed too bad on this her day of 
 triumph, and after she had given a hint, as it were, about 
 Lizzie's fine clothes, that the girl should be so blind or 
 stubborn or both as to come around in that plain rig. 
 Just a common white dress, and an old hat that might 
 have been worn about a livery-stable. It was mortifying 
 in the extreme. She expected a light silk, and kid gloves, 
 and a beflowered hat. Why, Lizzie looked a great deal 
 finer. Did Mrs. Bailey rig her out this way for spite? 
 she wondered. 
 
 But, as it was too late to send Elizabeth back for more 
 fitting garments, the old lady resigned herself to her dis- 
 appointment. The pink parasol was lovely, ar^d Lizzie 
 was wild over it. Even Aunt Nan seemed mollified. It
 
 AN EVENTFUL PICNIC 179 
 
 gave her great satisfaction to look the two girls over. 
 Her own outshone the one from Rittenhouse Square by 
 many counts, so thought the mother; but all day long, 
 as she walked behind them or viewed them from afar, 
 she could not understand why it was that the people who 
 passed them always looked twice at Elizabeth and only 
 once at Lizzie. It seemed, after all, that clothes did not 
 make the girl. It was disappointing. 
 
 The box of candy was all that could possibly be desired. 
 It was ample for the needs of them all, including the two 
 youths from the livery-stable who had attached them- 
 selves to their party from the early morning. In fact, it 
 was two boxes, one of the most delectable chocolates of 
 all imaginable kinds, and the other of mixed candies and 
 candied fruit. Both boxes bore the magic name '^Huy- 
 ler's'^ on the covers. Lizzie had often passed Huyler's, 
 taking her noon walk on Chestnut Street, and looked 
 enviously at the girls who walked in and out with white 
 square bundles tied with gold cord as if it were an every- 
 day affair. And now she was actually eating all she 
 pleased of those renowned candies. It was almost like 
 belonging to the great elite. 
 
 It was a long day and a pleasant one even to Elizabeth. 
 She had never been to Willow Grove before, and the 
 strange blending of sweet nature and Vanity Fair charmed 
 her. It was a rest after the winter's round of monotonous 
 engagements. Even the loud-voiced awkward youths 
 from the livery-stable did not annoy her extremely. She 
 took them as a part of the whole, and did not pay much 
 attention to them. They were rather shy of her, giving 
 the most of their attention to Lizzie, much to the satis- 
 faction of Aunt Nan. 
 
 They mounted the horses in the merry-go-rounds, and
 
 180 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 tried each one several times. Elizabeth wondered why- 
 anybody desired this sort of amusement, and after her 
 first trip would have been glad to sit with her grand- 
 mother and watch the others, only that the old lady 
 seemed so much to desire to have her get on with the 
 rest. She would not do anj^thing to spoil the pleasure 
 of the others if she could help it ; so she obediently seated 
 herself in a great sea-shell drawn by a soiled plaster 
 nymph, and whirled on till Lizzie declared it was time to 
 go to something else. 
 
 They went into the Old Mill, and down into the Mimic 
 Mine, and sailed through the painted Venice, eating candy 
 and chewing gum and shouting. All but Elizabeth. 
 Elizabeth would not chew gum nor talk loud. It was 
 not her way. But she smiled serenely on the rest, and 
 did not let it worry her that some one might recognize 
 the popular Miss Bailey in so ill-bred a crowd. She knew 
 that it was their way, and they could have no other. 
 They were having a good time, and she was a part of it 
 for to-day. They weighed one another on the scales 
 with many jokes and much laughter, and went to see all 
 the moving pictures in the place. They ate their lunch 
 under the trees, and then at last the music began. 
 
 They seated themselves on the outskirts of the com- 
 pany, for Lizzie declared that was the only pleasant 
 place to be. She did not want to go "way up front.'' 
 She had a boy on either side of her, and she kept the 
 seat shaking with laughter. Now and then a weary 
 guard would look distressedly down the line, and motion 
 for less noise; but they giggled on. Elizabeth was glad 
 they were so far back that they might not annoy more 
 people than was necessary. 
 
 But the music was good, and she watched the leader
 
 AN EVENTFUL PICNIC 181 
 
 with great satisfaction. She noticed that there were 
 many people given up to the pleasure of it. The melody 
 went to her soul, and thrilled through it. She had not 
 had much good music in her life. The last three years, 
 of course, she had been occasionally to the Academy of 
 Music; but, though her grandmother had a box there, 
 she very seldom had time or cared to attend concerts. 
 Sometimes, when Melba, or Caruso, or some world-re- 
 nowned favorite was there, she would take Elizabeth for 
 an hour, usually slipping out just after the favorite solo 
 with noticeable loftiness, as if the orchestra were the 
 common dust of the earth, and she only condescended 
 to come for the soloist. So Elizabeth had scarcely known 
 the delight of a whole concert of fine orchestral music. 
 
 She heard Lizzie talking. 
 
 "Yes, that's Walter Damrosch! Ain't that name 
 fierce? Grandma thinks it's kind of wicked to pernounce 
 it that way. They say he's fine, but I must say I liked 
 the band they had last year better. It played a whole 
 lot of lively things, and once they had a rattle-box and a 
 squeaking thing that cried like a baby right out in the 
 music, and everybody just roared laughing. I tell you 
 that was great. I don't care much for this here kind of 
 music myself . Do you?" And Jim and Joe both agreed 
 that they didn't, either. Elizabeth smiled, and kept on 
 enjoying it. 
 
 Peanuts were the order of the day, and their assertive 
 crackle broke in upon the finest passages. Elizabeth 
 wished her cousin w^ould take a walk; and by and by she 
 did, politely inviting Elizabeth to go along; but she de- 
 clined, and they were left to sit through the remainder 
 of the afternoon concert. 
 
 After supper they watched the lights come out, Eliza-
 
 182 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 beth thinking about the description of the heavenly city 
 as one after another the buildings blazed out against the 
 darkening blue of the June night. The music was about 
 to begin. Indeed^ it could be heard already in the dis- 
 tance, and drew the girl irresistibly. For the first time 
 that day she made a move, and the others followed, half 
 wearied of their dissipations, and not knowing exactly 
 what to do next. 
 
 They stood the first half of the concert very well, but 
 at the intermission they wandered out to view the electric 
 fountain with its many-colored fluctuations, and to take 
 a row on the tiny sheet of water. Ehzabeth remained 
 sitting where she was, and watched the fountain. Even 
 her grandmother and aunt grew restless, and wanted to 
 walk again. They said they had had enough music, and 
 did not want to hear any more. They could hear it well 
 enough, anyway, from further off. They believed they 
 would have some ice-cream. Didn't Elizabeth want some? 
 
 She smiled sweetly. Would grandmother mind if she 
 sat right there and heard the second part of the concert? 
 She loved music, and this was fine. She didn't feel like 
 eating another thing to-night. So the two ladies, think- 
 ing the girl queer that she didn't want ice-cream, went off 
 to enjoy theirs with a clear conscience; and Elizabeth 
 drew a long breath, and sat back with her eyes closed, to 
 rest and breathe in the sweet sounds that were beginning 
 to float out deUcately as if to feel whether the atmosphere 
 were right for what was to come after. 
 
 It was just at the close of this wonderful music, which 
 the programme said was Mendelssohn's ''Spring Song," 
 when Elizabeth looked up to meet the eyes of some one 
 who stood near in the aisle watching her, and there beside 
 her stood the man of the wilderness!
 
 AN EVENTFUL PICNIC 183 
 
 He was looking at her face, drinking in the beauty of 
 the profile and wondering whether he were right. Could 
 it be that this was his little brown friend, the maid of the 
 wilderness? This girl with the lovely, refined face, the 
 intellectual brow, the dainty fineness of manner? She 
 looked like some white angel dropped down into that 
 motley company of Sunday-school picknickers and city 
 pleasure-seekers. The noise and clatter of the place 
 seemed far away from her. She was absorbed utterly in 
 the sweet sounds. 
 
 When she looked up and saw him, the smile that flashed 
 out upon her face was like the sunshine upon a day that 
 has hitherto been still and almost sad. The eyes said, 
 ''You are come at last!'^ The curve of the lips said, "I 
 am glad you are here!" 
 
 He went to her like one who had been hungry for the 
 sight of her for a long time, and after he had grasped her 
 hand they stood so for a moment while the hum and 
 gentle clatter of talk that always starts between numbers 
 seethed around them and hid the few words they spoke 
 at first. 
 
 *'0, I have so longed to know if you were safe!" said 
 the man as soon as he could speak. 
 
 Then straightway the girl forgot all her three years of 
 training, and her success as a debutante, and became the 
 grave, shy thing she had been to him when he first saw 
 her, looking up with awed delight into the face she had 
 seen in her dreams for so long, and yet might not long for. 
 
 The orchestra began again, and they sat in silence 
 listening. But yet their souls seemed to speak to each 
 other through the medium of the music, as if the inter- 
 vening years were being bridged and brought together in 
 the space of those few waves of melody.
 
 184 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 "I have found out,'' said Elizabeth, looking up shyly 
 with a great light in her eyes. ^'I have found what it all 
 means. Have you? O, I have wanted so much to know 
 whether you had found out too!" 
 
 "Found out what?" he asked half sadly that he did 
 not understand. 
 
 "Found out how God hides us. Found what a friend 
 Jesus Christ can be." 
 
 "You are just the same," said the man with satisfac- 
 tion in his eyes. "You have not been changed nor 
 spoiled. They could not spoil you." 
 
 "Have you found out too?" she asked softly. She 
 looked up into his eyes with wistful longing. She wanted 
 this thing so very much. It had been in her prayers for 
 so long. 
 
 He could not withdraw his own glance. He did not 
 wish to. He longed to be able to answer what she 
 wished. 
 
 "A little, perhaps," he said doubtfully. "Not so much 
 as I would like to. Will you help me?" 
 
 ^'He will help you. You will find Him if you search 
 for Him with all your heart," she said earnestly. "It 
 says so in His book." 
 
 Then came more music, wistful, searching, tender. 
 Did it speak of the things of heaven to other souls there 
 than those two? 
 
 He stooped down, and said in a low tone that somehow 
 seemed to blend with the music like the words that fitted 
 it, 
 
 "I will try with all my heart if you will help me." 
 
 She smiled her answer, brimming back with deep de- 
 light. 
 
 Into the final lingering notes of an andante from one of
 
 AN EVENTFUL PICNIC 185 
 
 Beethoven^s sublime symphonies clashed the loud voice 
 of Lizzie: 
 
 ''0 Bess! Bess! B-es-see! I say, Bessie! Ma says 
 we'll have to go over by the cars now if we want to get a 
 seat. The concert's most out, and there'll be a fierce 
 rush. Come on! And grandma says, bring your friend 
 along with you if you want." This last with a smirking 
 recognition of the man, who had turned around wonder- 
 ingly to see who was speaking. 
 
 With a quick, searching glance that took in bedraggled 
 organdie, rose hat, and pink parasol, and set them aside 
 for what they were worth, George Benedict observed and 
 classified Lizzie. 
 
 '' Will you excuse yourself, and let me take you home a 
 little later?" he asked in a low tone. ''The crowd will be 
 very great, and I have my automobile here." 
 
 She looked at him gratefully, and assented. She had 
 much to tell him. She leaned across the seats, and spoke 
 in a clear tone to her cousin. 
 
 ''I will come a little later," she said, smiling with her 
 Rittenhouse Square look that always made Lizzie a little 
 afraid of her. ''Tell grandmother I have found an old 
 friend I have not seen for a long time. I will be there 
 almost as soon as you are." 
 
 They waited while Lizzie explained, and the grand- 
 mother and aunt nodded a reluctant assent. Aunt Nan 
 frowned. Elizabeth might have brought her friend along, 
 and introduced him to Lizzie. Did Elizabeth think 
 Lizzie wasn't good enough to be introduced? 
 
 He wrapped her in a great soft rug that was in the auto- 
 mobile, and tucked her in beside him; and she felt as if 
 the long, hard days that had passed since they had met 
 were all forgotten and obliterated in this night of delight.
 
 186 THE GIKL FROM MONTANA 
 
 Not all the attentions of all the fine men she had met in 
 society had ever been like his, so gentle, so perfect. She 
 had forgotten the lady as completely as if she had never 
 heard of her. She wanted now to tell her friend about her 
 heavenly Friend. 
 
 He let her talk, and watched her glowing, earnest face 
 by the dim light of the sky; for the moon had come out 
 to crown the night with beauty, and the unnatural bril- 
 liance of electric blaze, with all the glitter and noise of 
 Willow Grove, died into the dim, sweet night as those 
 two sped onward toward the city. The heart of the man 
 kept singing, singing, singing: ''I have found her at last! 
 She is safe!'' 
 
 ''I have prayed for you always," he said in one of the 
 pauses. It was just as they were coming into Flora 
 Street. The urchins were all out on the sidewalk yet, 
 for the night was hot; and they gathered about, and ran 
 hooting after the car as it slowed up at the door. ''I am 
 sure He did hide you safely, and I shall thank Him for 
 answering my prayer. And now I am coming to see you. 
 May I come to-morrow? " 
 
 There was a great gladness in her eyes. '' Yes," she said. 
 
 The Bradys had arrived from the corner trolley, and 
 were hovering about the door self-assertively. It was 
 most apparent to an onlooker that this was a good oppor- 
 tunity for an introduction, but the two young people 
 were entirely oblivious. The man touched his hat gravely, 
 a look of great admiration in his eyes, and said, ''Good 
 night " like a benediction. Then the girl turned and went 
 into the plain little home and to her belligerent relatives 
 with a light in her eyes and a joy in her steps that had not 
 been there earlier in the day. The dreams that visited 
 her hard pillow that night were heavenly and sweet. 

 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 ALONE AGAIN 
 
 "Now we're goin' to see ef the paper says anythin* 
 about our Bessie," said Grandmother Brady the next 
 morning, settUng her spectacles over her nose comfort- 
 ably and crossing one fat gingham knee over the other. 
 *'I always read the society notes, Bess." 
 
 Elizabeth smiled, and her grandmother read down the 
 column: 
 
 ''Mr. George Trescott Benedict and his mother, Mrs. 
 Vincent Benedict, have arrived home after an extended 
 tower of Europe," read Mrs. Brady. ''Mrs. Benedict is 
 much improved in health. It is rumored they will spend 
 the summer at their country seat on Wissahickon Heights." 
 
 "My!" interrupted Lizzie with her mouth full of fried 
 potatoes. "That's that fellow that was engaged to that 
 Miss What's-her-Name Loring. Don't you 'member? 
 They had his picture in the papers, and her; and then 
 all at once she threw him over for some dook or something, 
 and this feller went off. I heard about it from Mame. 
 Her sister works in a department-store, and she knows 
 Miss Loring. She says she's an awfully handsome girl, 
 and George Benedict was just gone on her. He had a 
 fearful case. Mame says Miss Loring — what is her 
 name? — O, Geraldine — Geraldine Loring bought some 
 lace of her. She heard her say it was for the gown she was 
 going to wear at the horse-show. They had her picture 
 in the paper just after the horse-show, and it was all over 
 
 187
 
 188 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 lace. I saw it. It cost a whole lot. I forget how many 
 dollars a yard. But there was something the matter 
 with the dook. She didn't marry him, after all. In her 
 picture she was driving four horses. Don't you remember 
 it, grandma? She sat up tall and high on a seat, holding 
 a whole lot of ribbons and whips and things. She has an 
 elegant figger. I guess mebbe the dook wasn't rich 
 enough. She hasn't been engaged to anybody else, and 
 I shouldn't wonder now but she'd take George Benedict 
 back. He was so av/ful stuck on her!" 
 
 Lizzie rattled on, and the grandmother read more 
 society notes, but Elizabeth heard no more. Her heart 
 had suddenly frozen, and dropped down like lead into her 
 being. She felt as if she never would be able to raise it 
 again. The lady! Surely she had forgotten the lady. 
 But Geraldine Loring! Of all women! Could it be pos- 
 sible? Geraldine Loring was almost — well, fast, at 
 least, as nearly so as one who was really of a fine old 
 family, and still held her own in society, could be. She 
 was beautiful as a picture; but her face, to Elizabeth's 
 mind, was lacking in fine feeling and intellect. A great 
 pity went out from her heart to the man whose fate was 
 in that doll-girl's hands. True, she had heard that Miss 
 Loring's family were unquestionable, and she knew her 
 mother was a most charming woman. Perhaps she had 
 misjudged her. She must have done so if he cared for 
 her, for it could not be otherwise. 
 
 The joy had gone out of the morning when Ehzabeth 
 went home. She went up to her Grandmother Bailey at 
 once, and after she had read her letters for her, and per- 
 formed the little services that were her habit, she said: 
 
 ''Grandmother, I'm expecting a man to call upon me 
 to-day. I thought I had better tell you."
 
 ALONE AGAIN 189 
 
 "A man!" said Madam Bailey, alarmed at once. She 
 wanted to look over and portion out the right man when 
 the time came. ''What man?'' 
 
 ''Why, a man I met in Montana," said Elizabeth, 
 wondering how much she ought to tell. 
 
 "A man you met in Montana! Horrors!" exclaimed 
 the now thoroughly aroused grandmother. "Not that 
 dreadful creature you ran away from?" 
 
 "O no!" said Ehzabeth, smihng. "Not that man. 
 A man who was very kind to me, and whom I like very 
 much." 
 
 So much the worse. Immediate action was necessary. 
 
 "Well, Ehzabeth," said Madam Bailey in her stiffest 
 tones, "I really do not care to have any of your Montana 
 friends visit you. You will have to excuse yourself. 
 It will lead to embarrassing entanglements. You do not 
 in the least realize your position in society. It is all well 
 enough to please your relatives, although I think you 
 often overdo that. You could just as well send them a 
 present now and then, and please them more than to go 
 yourself. But as for any outsiders, it is impossible. I 
 draw the line there." 
 
 " But grandmother " 
 
 "Don't interrupt me, Elizabeth; I have something 
 more to say. I had word this morning from the steamship 
 company. They can give us our staterooms on the 
 Deutschland on Saturday, and I have decided to take 
 them. I have telegraphed, and we shall leave here to-day 
 for New York. I have one or two matters of business I 
 wish to attend to in New York. We shall go to the Wal- 
 dorf for a few days, and you will have more opportunity 
 to see New York than you have had yet. It will not be 
 too warm to enjoy going about a little, I fancy; and a
 
 190 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 number of our friends are going to be at the Waldorf, too. 
 The Craigs sail on Saturday with us. You will have 
 young company on the voyage." 
 
 Elizabeth's heart sank lower than she had known it 
 could go, and she grew white to the lips. The observant 
 grandmother decided that she had done well to be so 
 prompt. The man from Montana was by no means to 
 be admitted. She gave orders to that effect, unknown 
 to Elizabeth. 
 
 The girl went slowly to her room. All at once it had 
 dawned upon her that she had not given her address to 
 the man the night before, nor told him by so much as a 
 word what were her circumstances. An hour's medita- 
 tion brought her to the unpleasant decision that perhaps 
 even now in this hard spot God was only hiding her from 
 worse trouble. Mr. George Benedict belonged to 
 Geraldine Loring. He had declared as much when he 
 was in Montana. It would not be well for her to renew 
 the acquaintance. Her heart told her by its great ache 
 that she would be crushed under a friendship that could 
 not be lasting. 
 
 Very sadly she sat down to write a note. 
 
 "My dear Friend/' she wrote on plain paper with no 
 crest. It was like her to choose that. She would not 
 flaunt her good fortune in his face. She was a plain 
 Montana girl to him, and so she would remain. 
 
 "My grandmother has been very ill, and is obliged to 
 go away for her health. Unexpectedly I find that we are 
 to go to-day. I supposed it would not be for a week yet. 
 I am so sorry not to see you again, but I send you a 
 little book that has helped me to get acquainted with 
 Jesus Christ. Perhaps it will help you too. It is called
 
 ALONE AGAIN 191 
 
 'My Best Friend.' I shall not forget to pray always that 
 you may find Him. He is so precious to me! I must 
 thank you in words, though I never can say it as it should 
 be said, for your very great kindness to me when I was 
 in trouble. God sent you to me, I am sure. Always 
 gratefully your friend, 
 
 "Elizabeth.'' 
 
 That was all, no date, no address. He was not hers, 
 and she would hang out no clues for him to find her, even 
 if he wished. It was better so. 
 
 She sent the note and the little book to his address on 
 Walnut Street; and then after writing a note to her 
 Grandmother Brady, saying that she was going away 
 for a long trip with Grandmother Bailey, she gave her- 
 self into the hands of the future like a submissive but 
 weary child. 
 
 The noon train to New York carried in its drawing- 
 room-car Madam Bailey, her granddaughter, her maid, 
 and her dog, bound for Europe. The society columns so 
 stated; and so read Grandmother Brady a few days after- 
 ward. So also read George Benedict, but it meant nothing 
 to him. 
 
 When he received the note, his mind was almost as 
 much excited as when he saw the little brown girl and the 
 little brown horse vanishing behind the little brown 
 station on the prairie. He went to the telephone, and 
 reflected that he knew no names. He called up his auto- 
 mobile, and tore up to Flora Street; but in his bewilder- 
 ment of the night before he had not noticed which block 
 the house was in, nor which number. He thought he 
 knew where to find it, but in broad daylight the houses 
 were all alike for three blocks, and for the life of him he
 
 192 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 could not remember whether he had tm-ned up to the right 
 or the left when he came to Flora Street. He tried both, 
 but saw no sign of the people he had but casually noticed 
 at Willow Grove. 
 
 He could not ask where she lived, for he did not know 
 her name. Nothing but Elizabeth, and they had called 
 her Bessie. He could not go from house to house asking 
 for a girl named Bessie. They would think him a fool, 
 as he was, for not finding out her name, her precious name, 
 at once. How could he let her slip from him again when 
 he had just found her? 
 
 At last he hit upon a bright idea. He asked some chil- 
 dren along the street whether they knew of any young 
 woman named Bessie or Elizabeth living there, but they 
 all with one accord shook their heads, though one vol- 
 unteered the information that '' Lizzie Smith lives there." 
 It was most distracting and unsatisf3dng. There was 
 nothing for it but for him to go home and wait in patience 
 for her return. She would come back sometime probably. 
 She had not said so, but she had not said she would not. 
 He had found her once; he might find her again. And he 
 could pray. She had found comfort in that ; so would he. 
 He would learn what her secret was. He would get 
 acquainted with her "best Friend." Diligently did he 
 study that little book, and then he went and hunted up 
 the man of God who had written it, and who had been 
 the one to lead Elizabeth into the path of light by his 
 earnest preaching every Sabbath, though this fact he 
 did not know. 
 
 The days passed, and the Saturday came. Elizabeth, 
 heavy-hearted, stood on the deck of the Deutschland, and 
 watched her native land disappear from view. So again 
 George Benedict had lost her from sight.
 
 ALONE AGAIN 193 
 
 It struck Elizabeth, as she stood straining her eyes to 
 see the last of the shore through tears that would burn 
 to the surface and fall down her white cheeks, that again 
 she was running away from a man, only this time not of 
 her own free will. She was being taken away. But per- 
 haps it was better. 
 
 And it never once entered her mind that, if she had told 
 her grandmother who the friend in Montana was, and 
 where he lived in Philadelphia, it would have made all 
 the difference in the world. 
 
 From the first of the voyage Grandmother Bailey 
 grew steadily worse, and when they landed on the other 
 side they went from one place to another seeking health. 
 Carlsbad waters did not agree with her, and they went to 
 the south of France to try the climate. At each move 
 the little Old lady grew weaker and more querulous. 
 She finally made no further resistance, and gave up to 
 the role of invalid. Then Elizabeth must be in constant 
 attendance. Madam Bailey demanded reading, and no 
 voice was so soothing as Elizabeth's. 
 
 Gradually EHzabeth substituted books of her own 
 choice as her grandmother seemed not to mind, and now 
 and then she would read a page of some book that told 
 of the best Friend. At first because it was written by 
 the dear pastor at home it commanded her attention, and 
 finally because some dormant chord in her heart had been 
 touched, she allowed Elizabeth to speak of these things. 
 But it was not until they had been away from home for 
 three months, and she had been growing daily weaker 
 and weaker, that she allowed EUzabeth to read in the 
 Bible. 
 
 The girl chose the fourteenth chapter of John, and over 
 and over again, whenever the restless nerves tormented
 
 194 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 their victim, she would read those words, "Let not your 
 heart be troubled" until the selfish soul, who had lived 
 all her life to please the world and do her own pleasure, 
 came at last to hear the words, and feel that perhaps she 
 did believe in God, and might accept that invitation, 
 "Believe also in me." 
 
 One day Elizabeth had been reading a psalm, and 
 thought her grandmother was asleep. She was sitting 
 back with weary heart, thinking what would happen if 
 her grandmother should not get well. The old lady 
 opened her eyes. 
 
 "Elizabeth," she said abruptly, just as when she was 
 well, "you've been a good girl. I'm glad you came. I 
 couldn't have died right without you. I never thought 
 much about these things before, but it really is worth 
 while. In my Father's house. He is my Father, Eliza- 
 beth." 
 
 She went to sleep then, and Elizabeth tiptoed out and 
 left her with the nurse. By and by Marie came cr)dng in, 
 and told her that the Madam was dead. 
 
 Elizabeth was used to having people die. She was not 
 shocked; only it seemed lonely again to find herself facing 
 the world, in a foreign land. And when she came to face 
 the arrangements that had to be made, which, after all, 
 money and servants made easy, she found herself dread- 
 ing her own land. What must she do after her grand- 
 mother was laid to rest? She could not live in the great 
 house in Rittenhouse Square, and neither could she very 
 well go and live in Flora Street. O, well, her Father 
 would hide her. She need not plan; He would plan for 
 her. The mansions on the earth were His too, as well as 
 those in heaven. 
 
 And so resting she passed through the weary voyage
 
 ALONE AGAIN 195 
 
 and the day when the body was laid to rest in the Bailey 
 lot in the cemetery, and she went back to the empty 
 house alone. It was not until after the funeral that she 
 went to see Grandmother Brady. She had not thought 
 it wise or fitting to invite the hostile grandmother to the 
 other one's funeral. She had thought Grandmother 
 Bailey would not like it. 
 
 She rode to Flora Street in the carriage. She felt too 
 weary to walk or go in the trolley. She was taking 
 account of stock in the way of friends, thinking over 
 whom she cared to see. One of the first bits of news she 
 had heard on arriving in this country had been that Miss 
 Loring's wedding was to come off in a few days. It 
 seemed to strike her like a thunderbolt, and she was 
 trying to arraign herself for this as she rode along. It 
 was therefore not helpful to her state of mind to have 
 her grandmother remark grimly: 
 
 ''That feller o' yours 'n his oughtymobble has been 
 goin' up an* down this street, day in, day out, this whole 
 blessed summer. Ain't been a day he didn't pass, some- 
 times once, sometimes twicet. I felt sorry fer him some- 
 times. Ef he hadn't been so high an' mighty stuck up 
 that he couldn't recognize me, I'd 'a' spoke to him. It 
 was plain ez the nose on your face he was lookin' fer you. 
 Don't he know where you live?" 
 
 ''I don't believe he does," said Elizabeth languidly. 
 " Say, grandmother, would you care to come up to Ritten- 
 house Square and live?" 
 
 *'Me? In Rittenhouse Square? Fer the land sakes, 
 child, no. That's flat. I've lived me days out in me own 
 sp'ere, and I don't intend to change now at me time o' 
 life. Ef you want to do somethin' nice fer me, child, now 
 you've got all that money, I'd like real well to live in a
 
 196 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 house that hed white marble steps. It's been me one 
 aim all me life. There's some round on the next street 
 that don't come high. There'd be plenty room fer us 
 all, an' a nice place fer Lizzie to get married when the 
 time comes. The parlor's real big, and you would send 
 her some roses, couldn't you?" 
 
 ''AH right, grandmother. You shall have it," said 
 Elizabeth with a relieved sigh, and in a few minutes she 
 went home. Some day pretty soon she must think 
 what to do, but there was no immediate hurry. She was 
 glad that Grandmother Brady did not want to come to 
 Rittenhouse Square. Things would be more congenial 
 without her. 
 
 But the house seemed great and empty when she en- 
 tered, and she was glad to hear the friendly telephone 
 bell ringing. It was the wife of her pastor, asking her to 
 come to them for a quiet dinner. 
 
 This was the one home in the great city where she felt 
 like going in her loneliness. There would be no form nor 
 ceremony. Just a friend with them. It was good. 
 The doctor would give her some helpful words. She was 
 glad they had asked her.
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 A PINAL FLIGHT AND PURSUIT 
 
 "George," said Mrs. Vincent Benedict, ''I want you 
 to do something for me." 
 
 ^'Certainly, mother, anything I can." 
 
 ''Well, it's only to go to dinner with me to-night. 
 Our pastor's wife has telephoned me that she wants us 
 very much. She especially emphasized you. She said 
 she absolutely needed you. It was a case of charity, 
 and she would be so grateful to you if you would come. 
 She has a young friend with her who is very sad, and she 
 wants to cheer her up. Now don't frown. I won't 
 bother you again this week. I know you hate dinners 
 and girls. But really, George, this is an unusual case. 
 The girl is just home from Europe, and buried her grand- 
 mother yesterday. She hasn't a soul in the world be- 
 longing to her that can be with her, and the pastor's wife 
 has asked her over to dinner quietly. Of course she isn't 
 going out. She must be in mourning. And you know 
 you're fond of the doctor." 
 
 "Yes, I'm fond of the doctor," said George, frowning 
 discouragedly; ''but I'd rather take him alone, and not 
 with a girl flung at me everlastingly. I'm tired of it. 
 I didn't think it of Christian people, though; I thought 
 she was above such things." 
 
 "Now, George," said his mother severely, "that's a 
 real insult to the girl, and to our friend too. She hasn't 
 an idea of doing any such thing. It seem§ this girl is 
 quite unusual, very religious, and our friend thought you 
 
 197
 
 198 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 would be just the one to cheer her. She apologized 
 several times for presuming to ask you to help her. You 
 really will have to go.'* 
 
 ''Well, who is this paragon, anyway? Any one I 
 know? I s'pose I've got to go." 
 
 " Why, she's a Miss Bailey," said the mother, relieved. 
 "Mrs. Wilton Merrill Bailey's granddaughter. Did you 
 ever happen to meet her? I never did." 
 
 "Never heard of her," growled George. "Wish I 
 hadn't now." 
 
 "George!" 
 
 "Well, mother, go on. I'll be good. What does she 
 do? Dance, and play bridge, and sing?" 
 
 "I haven't heard anything that she does," said his 
 mother, laughing. 
 
 "Well, of course she's a paragon; they all are, mother. 
 I'll be ready in half an hour. Let's go and get it done. 
 We can come home early, can't we?" 
 
 Mrs. Benedict sighed. If only George would settle 
 down on some suitable girl of good family! But he was 
 so queer and restless. She was afraid for him. Ever 
 since she had taken him away to Europe, when she was 
 so ill, she had been afraid for him. He seemed so moody 
 and absent-minded then and afterwards. Now this 
 Miss Bailey was said to be as beautiful as she was good. 
 If only George would take a notion to her! 
 
 Elizabeth was sitting in a great arm-chair by the open 
 fire when he entered the room. He had not expected to 
 find any one there. He heard voices up-stairs, and sup- 
 posed Miss Bailey was talking with her hostess. His 
 mother followed the servant to remove her wraps, and he 
 entered the drawing-room alone. She stirred, looked 
 up, and saw him.
 
 A FINAL FLIGHT AND PURSUIT 199 
 
 ''Elizabeth!" he said, and came forward to grasp her 
 hand. ''I have found you again. How came you here?" 
 
 But she had no opportunity to answer, for the ladies 
 entered almost at once, and there stood the two smiling 
 at each other. 
 
 ''Why, you have met before!" exclaimed the hostess. 
 "How delighted I am! I knew you two would enjoy 
 meeting. EUzabeth, child, you never told me you knew 
 George." 
 
 George Benedict kept looking around for Miss Bailey 
 to enter the room; but to his relief she did not come, 
 and, when they went out to the dining-room, there was 
 no place set for her. She must have preferred to remain 
 at home. He forgot her, and settled down to the joy of 
 having Elizabeth by his side. His mother, opposite, 
 watched his face blossom into the old-time joy as he 
 handed this new girl the olives, and had eyes for no one 
 else. 
 
 It was to Elizabeth a blessed evening. They held 
 sweet converse one with another as children of the King. 
 For a little time under the old influence of the restful, 
 helpful talk she forgot "the lady," and all the perplexing 
 questions that had vexed her soul. She knew only that 
 she had entered into an atmosphere of peace and love and 
 joy. 
 
 It was not until the evening was over, and the guests 
 were about to leave, that Mrs. Benedict addressed Eliza- 
 beth as Miss Bailey. Up to that moment it had not 
 entered her son's mind that Miss Bailey was present at 
 all. He turned with a start, and looked into Elizabeth's 
 eyes; and she smiled back to him as if to acknowledge the 
 name. Could she read his thoughts? he wondered. 
 
 It was only a few steps across the Square, and Mrs.
 
 200 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 Benedict and her son walked to Elizabeth's door with her. 
 He had no opportunity to speak to Elizabeth alone, but 
 he said as he bade her good-night, ''I shall see you to- 
 morrow, then, in the morning?" 
 
 The inflection was almost a question; but Elizabeth 
 only said, ''Good night," and vanished into the house. 
 
 *'Then you have met her before, George?" asked his 
 mother wonderingly. 
 
 ''Yes," he answered hurriedly, as if to stop her further 
 question. "Yes, I have met her before. She is very 
 beautiful, mother." 
 
 And because the mother was afraid she might say too 
 much she assented, and h^d her peace. It was the first 
 time in years that George had called a girl beautiful. 
 
 Meantime Elizabeth had gone to her own room and 
 locked the door. She hardly knew what to think, her 
 heart was so happy. Yet beneath it all was the troubled 
 thought of the lady, the haunting lady for whom they 
 had prayed together on the prairie. And as if to add to 
 the thought she found a bit of newspaper lying on the 
 floor beside her dressing-table. Marie must have dropped 
 it as she came in to turn up the lights. It was nothing 
 but the corner torn from a newspaper, and should be con- 
 signed to the waste-basket ; yet her eye caught the words 
 in large head-lines as she picked it up idly, " Miss Geraldine 
 Loring's Wedding to Be an Elaborate Affair." There 
 was nothing more readable. The paper was torn in a 
 zigzag line just beneath. Yet that was enough. It re- 
 minded her of her duty. 
 
 Down beside the bed she knelt, and prayed: "O my 
 Father, hide me now ; hide me ! I am in trouble ; hide me ! " 
 Over and over she prayed till her heart grew calm and she 
 could think.
 
 A FINAL FLIGHT AND PUESUIT 201 
 
 Then she sat down quietly, and put the matter before 
 her. 
 
 This man whom she loved with her whole soul was to 
 be married in a few days. The world of society would be 
 at the wedding. He was pledged to another, and he was 
 not hers. Yet he was her old friend, and was coming to 
 see her. If he came and looked into her face with those 
 clear eyes of his, he might read in hers that she loved 
 him. How dreadful that would be! 
 
 Yes, she must search yet deeper. She had heard the 
 glad ring in his voice when he met her, and said, "Eliza- 
 beth!'' She had seen his eyes. He was in danger him- 
 self. She knew it; she might not hide it from herself. 
 She must help him to be true to the woman to whom he 
 was pledged, whom now he would have to marry. 
 
 She must go away from it all. She would run away, 
 now at once. It seemed that she was always running 
 away from some one. She would go back to the moun- 
 tains where she had started. She was not afraid now of 
 the man from whom she had fled. Culture and education 
 had done their work. Religion had set her upon a rock. 
 She could go back with the protection that her money 
 would put about her, with the companionship of some 
 good, elderly woman, and be safe from harm in that way; 
 but she could not stay here and meet George Benedict 
 in the morning, nor face Geraldine Loring on her wedding- 
 day. It would be all the same the facing whether she 
 were in the wedding-party or not. Her days of mourn- 
 ing for her grandmother would of course protect her from 
 this public facing. It was the thought she could not bear. 
 She must get away from it all forever. 
 
 Her lawyers should arrange the business. They would 
 purchase the house that Grandmother Brady desired,
 
 202 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 and then give her her money to build a church. She 
 would go back, and teach among the lonely wastes of 
 mountain and prairie what Jesus Christ longed to be to 
 the people made in His image. She would go back and 
 place above the graves of her father and mother and 
 brothers stones that should bear the words of life to all 
 who should pass by in that desolate region. And that 
 should be her excuse to the world for going, if she needed 
 any excuse — she had gone to see about placing a monu- 
 ment over her father's grave. But the monument should 
 be a church somewhere where it was most needed. She 
 was resolved upon that. 
 
 That was a busy night. Marie was called upon to pack 
 a few things for a hurried journey. The telephone rang, 
 and the sleepy night-operator answered crossly. But 
 Elizabeth found out all she wanted to know about the 
 early Chicago trains, and then lay down to rest. 
 
 Early the next morning George Benedict telephoned 
 for some flowers from the florist ; and, when they arrived, 
 he pleased himself by taking them to Elizabeth's door. 
 
 He did not expect to find her up, but it would be a 
 pleasure to have them reach her by his own hand. They 
 would be sent up to her room, and she would know in her 
 first waking thought that he remembered her. He smiled 
 as he touched the bell and stood waiting. 
 
 The old butler opened the door. He looked as if he 
 had not fully finished his night's sleep. He listened 
 mechanically to the message, ''For Miss Bailey with Mr. 
 Benedict's good-morning," and then his face took on a 
 deprecatory expression. 
 
 ''I'm sorry, Mr. Benedict,'* he said, as if in the matter 
 he were personally to blame; "but she's just gone. Miss 
 EHzabeth's mighty quick in her ways, and last night after
 
 A FINAL FLIGHT AND PURSUIT 203 
 
 she come home she decided to go to Chicago on the early 
 train. She's just gone to the station not ten minutes ago. 
 They was late, and had to hurry. I'm expecting the foot- 
 man back every minute." 
 
 ''Gone?" said George Benedict, standing blankly on 
 the door-step and looking down the street as if that 
 should bring her. ''Gone? To Chicago, did you say?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, she's gone to Chicago. That is, she's going 
 further, but she took the Chicago Limited. She's gone 
 to see about a monument for Madam's son John, Miss 
 'Lizabuth's father. She said she must go at once, and 
 she went." 
 
 "What time does that train leave?" asked the young 
 man. It was a thread of hope. He was stung into a 
 superhuman effort as he had been on the prairie when he 
 had caught the flying vision of the girl and horse, and he 
 had shouted, and she would not stop for him. 
 
 "Nine-fifty, sir," said the butler. He wished this ex- 
 cited young man would go after her. She needed some 
 one. His heart had often stirred against fate that this 
 pearl among young mistresses should have no intimate 
 friend or lover now in her loneliness. 
 
 "Nine-fifty!" He looked at his watch. No chance! 
 "Broad Street?" he asked sharply. 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 Would there be a chance if he had his automobile? 
 Possibly, but hardly unless the train was late. There 
 would be a trifle more chance of catching the train at 
 West Philadelphia. O for his automobile! He turned 
 to the butler in despair. 
 
 "Telephone her!" he said. "Stop her if you possibly 
 can on board the train, and I will try to get there. I 
 must see her. It is important." He started down the
 
 204 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 steps, his mind in a whirl of trouble. How should he go? 
 The trolley would be the only available way, and yet the 
 trolley would be useless; it would take too long. Never- 
 theless, he sped down toward Chestnut Street blindly, 
 and now in his despair his new habit came to him. ''0 
 my Father, help me! Help me! Save her for me!" 
 
 Up Walnut Street at a breakneck pace came a flaming 
 red automobile, sounding its taunting menace, '^ Honk- 
 honk! Honk-honk!" but George Benedict stopped not 
 for automobiles. Straight into the jaws of death he 
 rushed, and was saved only by the timely grasp of a 
 policeman, who rolled him over on the ground. The 
 machine came to a halt, and a familiar voice shouted: 
 "Conscience alive, George, is that you? What are you 
 trying to do? Say, but that was a close shave! Where 
 you going in such a hurry, anyway? Hustle in, and I'll 
 take you there." 
 
 The young man sprang into the seat, and gasped: 
 *'West Philadelphia station, Chicago Limited! Hurry! 
 Train leaves Broad Street station at nine-fifty. Get me 
 there if you can, Billy. I'll be your friend forever." 
 
 By this time they were speeding fast. Neither of the 
 two had time to consider which station was the easier to 
 make; and, as the machine was headed toward West 
 Philadelphia, on they went, regardless of laws or vainly 
 shouting policemen. 
 
 George Benedict sprang from the car before it had 
 stopped, and nearly fell again. His nerves were not 
 steady from his other fall yet. He tore into the station 
 and out through the passageway past the beckoning hand 
 of the ticket-man who sat in the booth at the staircase, 
 and strode up three steps at a time. The guard shouted: 
 "Hurry! You may get it; she's just starting!" and a
 
 A FINAL FLIGHT AND PURSUIT 205 
 
 friendly hand reached out, and hauled him up on the plat- 
 form of the last car. 
 
 For an instant after he was safely in the car he was too 
 dazed to think. It seemed as if he must keep on blindly 
 rushing through that train all the way to Chicago, or she 
 would get away from him. He sat down in an empty 
 seat for a minute to get his senses. He was actually on 
 the train! It had not gone without him! 
 
 Now the next question was, Was she on it herself, or 
 had she in some way slipped from his grasp even yet? 
 The old butler might have caught her by telephone. He 
 doubted it. He knew her stubborn determination, and 
 all at once he began to suspect that she was with intention 
 running away from him, and perhaps had been doing so 
 before! It was an astonishing thought and a grave one, 
 yet, if it were true, what had meant that welcoming smile 
 in her eyes that had been like dear sunshine to his heart? 
 
 But there was no time to consider such questions now. 
 He had started on this quest, and he must continue it 
 until he found her. Then she should be made to explain 
 once and for all most fully. He would live through no 
 more torturing agonies of separation without a full under- 
 standing of the matter. He got upon his shaking feet, 
 and started to hunt for Elizabeth. 
 
 Then all at once he became aware that he was still 
 carr3dng the box of flowers. Battered and out of shape 
 it was, but he was holding it as if it held the very hope 
 of life for him. He smiled grimly as he tottered shakily 
 down the aisle, grasping his floral offering w4th deter- 
 mination. This was not exactly the morning call he had 
 planned, nor the way he had expected to present his 
 flowers; but it seemed to be the best he could do. Then, 
 at last, in the very furthest car from the end, in the
 
 206 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 drawing-room he found her, sitting gray and sorrowful, 
 looking at the fast-flying landscape. 
 
 ^'Elizabeth!'' He stood in the open door and called 
 to her; and she started as from a deep sleep, her face blaz- 
 ing into glad sunshine at sight of him. She put her hand 
 to her heart, and smiled. 
 
 "I have brought you some flowers,'* he said grimly. 
 "I am afraid there isn't much left of them now; but, such 
 as they are, they are here. I hope you will accept them." 
 
 ^'Oh!" gasped Elizabeth, reaching out for the poor 
 crushed roses as if they had been a little child in danger. 
 She drew them from the battered box and to her arms 
 with a delicious movement of caressing, as if she would 
 make up to them for all they had come through. He 
 watched her, half pleased, half savagely. Why should 
 all that tenderness be wasted on mere fading flowers? 
 
 At last he spoke, interrupting her brooding over his roses. 
 
 "You are running away from me!" he charged. 
 
 "Well, and what if I am?" She looked at him with a 
 loving defiance in her eyes. 
 
 "Don't you know I love you?" he asked, sitting down 
 beside her and talking low and almost fiercely. "Don't 
 you know I've been torn away from you, or you from me, 
 twice before now, and that I cannot stand it any more? 
 Say, don't you know it? Answer, please!" The demand 
 was kind, but peremptory. 
 
 "I was afraid so," she murmured with drooping eyes, 
 and cheeks from which all color had fled. 
 
 "Well, why do you do it? Why did you run away? 
 Don't you care for me? Tell me that. If you can't ever 
 love me, you are excusable; but I must know it all now." 
 
 "Yes, I care as much as you," she faltered, "but " 
 
 "But what?" sharply.
 
 A FINAL FLIGHT AND PURSUIT 207 
 
 "But you are going to be married this week/* she said 
 in desperation, raising her miserable eyes to his. 
 
 He looked at her in astonishment. 
 
 '*Am I?" said he. ''Well, that's news to me; but it's 
 the best news I've heard in a long time. When does the 
 ceremony come off? I wish it was this morning. Make 
 it this morning, will you? Let's stop this blessed old 
 train and go back to the Doctor. He'll fix it so we can't 
 ever run away from each other again. Elizabeth, look 
 at me!" 
 
 But Elizabeth hid her eyes now. They were full of tears. 
 
 "But the lady — " she gasped out, struggUng with the 
 sobs. She was so weary, and the thought of what he 
 had suggested was so precious. 
 
 " What lady? There is no lady but you, Elizabeth, and 
 never has been. Haven't you known that for a long time? 
 I have. That was all a hallucination of my foolish brain. 
 I had to go out on the plains to get rid of it, but I left it 
 there forever. She was nothing to me after I saw you." 
 
 "But — but people said — and it was in the paper. 
 I saw it. You cannot desert her now; it would be dis- 
 honorable." 
 
 "Thunder!" ejaculated the distracted young man. 
 " In the paper! What lady? " 
 
 "Why, Miss Loring! Geraldine Loring. I saw that 
 the preparations were all made for her wedding, and I 
 was told she was to marry you." 
 
 In sheer relief he began to laugh. 
 
 At last he stopped, as the old hurt look spread over her 
 face. 
 
 "Excuse me, dear," he said gently, "There was a little 
 acquaintance between Miss Loring and myself. It only 
 amounted to a flirtation on her part, one of many. It
 
 208 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 was a great distress to my mother, and I went out West, 
 as you know, to get away from her. I knew she would 
 only bring me unhappiness, and she was not willing to 
 give up some of her ways that were impossible. I am 
 glad and thankful that God saved me from her. I be- 
 lieve she is going to marry a distant relative of mine by 
 the name of Benedict, but I thank the kind Father that 
 / am not going to marry her. There is only one woman 
 in the whole wide world that I am willing to marry, or 
 ever will be; and she is sitting beside me now.'' 
 
 The train was going rapidly now. It would not be 
 long before the conductor would reach them. The man 
 leaned over, and clasped the little gloved hand that lay 
 in the girl's lap; and Elizabeth felt the great joy that had 
 tantalized her for these three years in dreams and visions 
 settle down about her in beautiful reality. She was his 
 now forever. She need never run away again. 
 
 The conductor was not long in coming to them, and the 
 matter-of-fact world had to be faced once more. The 
 young man produced his card, and said a few words to 
 the conductor, mentioning the name of his uncle, who, 
 by the way, happened to be a director of the road; and 
 then he explained the situation. It was very necessary 
 that the young lady be recalled at once to her home be- 
 cause of a change in the circumstances. He had caught 
 the train at West Philadelphia by automobile, coming as 
 he was in his morning clothes, without baggage and with 
 little money. Would the conductor be so kind as to put 
 them off that they might return to the city by the shortest 
 possible route? 
 
 The conductor glared and scolded, and said people 
 ''didn't know their own minds," and "wanted to move 
 the earth." Then he eyed Elizabeth, and she smiled.
 
 A FINAL FLIGHT AND PURSUIT 209 
 
 He let a grim glimmer of what might have been a sour 
 smile years ago peep out for an instant, and — he let 
 them off. 
 
 They wandered delightedly about from one trolley to 
 another until they found an automobile garage, and soon 
 were speeding back to Philadelphia. 
 
 They waited for no ceremony, these two who had met 
 and loved by the way in the wilderness. They went 
 straight to Mrs. Benedict for her blessing, and then to 
 the minister to arrange for his services; and within the 
 week a quiet wedding-party entered the arched doors of 
 the placid brown church with the lofty spire, and Eliza- 
 beth Bailey and George Benedict were united in the 
 sacred bonds of matrimony. 
 
 There were present Mrs. Benedict and one or two inti- 
 mate friends of the family, besides Grandmother Brady, 
 Aunt Nan, and Lizzie. 
 
 Lizzie brought a dozen bread-and-butter-plates from 
 the ten-cent store. They were adorned with cupids and 
 roses and much gilt. But Lizzie was disappointed. No 
 display, no pomp and ceremony. Just a simple white 
 dress and white veil. Lizzie did not understand that the 
 veil had been in the Bailey family for generations, and 
 that the dress was an heirloom also. It was worn because 
 Grandmother Bailey had given it to her, and told her she 
 wanted her to wear it on her wedding-day. Sweet and 
 beautiful she looked as she turned to walk down the aisle 
 on her husband's arm, and she smiled at Grandmother 
 Brady in a way that filled the grandmother's heart with 
 pride and triumph. Elizabeth was not ashamed of the 
 Bradys even among her fine friends. But Lizzie grumbled 
 all the way home at the plainness of the ceremony, and 
 the lack of bridesmaids and fuss and feathers.
 
 210 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 The social column of the daily papers stated that young 
 Mr. and Mrs. George Benedict were spending their honey- 
 moon in an extended tour of the West, and Grandmother 
 Brady so read it aloud at the breakfast table to the admir- 
 ing family. Only Lizzie looked discontented: 
 
 " She just wore a dark blue tricotine one-piece dress 
 and a little plain dark hat. She ain't got a bit of taste. 
 Oh Boy! If I just had her pocket book wouldn't I show 
 the world ? But anyhow I'm glad she went in a private car. 
 There was a little class to her, though if t'had been mine 
 I'd uv preferred ridin' in the parlor coach an' havin' folks 
 see me and my fine husband. He's some looker, George 
 Benedict is ! Everybody turns to watch 'em as they go by, 
 and they just sail along and never seem to notice. It's 
 all perfectly throwed away on 'em. Gosh! I'd hate to be 
 such a nut!" 
 
 "Now, Lizzie, you know you hadn't oughtta talk like 
 that!" reproved her grandmother, "After her giving you 
 all that money fer your own wedding. A thousand dollars 
 just to spend as you please on your does and a blow out, 
 and house linens. Jest because she don't care for gewgaws 
 like you do, you think she's a fool. But she's no fool. 
 She's got a good head on her, and she'll get more in the 
 long run out of life than you will. She's been real loving 
 and kind to us all, and she didn't have any reason 
 to neither. We never did much fer her. And look at 
 how nice and common she's been with us all, not a bit 
 high headed. I declare, Lizzie, I should think you'd 
 be ashamed!" 
 
 " Oh, well," said Lizzie shrugging her shoulders indif- 
 ferently, "She's all right in her way, only 'taint my way. 
 And I'm thankful t'goodness that I had the nerve to
 
 A FINAL FLIGHT AND PURSUIT 211 
 
 speak up when she offered to give me my trousseau. She 
 askt me would I druther hav her buy it for me, or have 
 the money and pick it out m'self, and I spoke up right 
 quick and says, 'Oh, cousin Bessie, I wouldn't thinJc of 
 givin' ya all that trouble. I'd take the money ef it's all 
 the same t'you,' and she jest smiled and said all right, she 
 expected I knew what I wanted better'n she did. So 
 yes'teddy when I went down to the station to see her off 
 she handed me a bank book. And — Oh, say, I fergot! 
 She said there was a good-bye note inside. I ain't had 
 time to look at it since. I went right to the movies on the 
 dead run to get there 'fore the first show begun, and it's in 
 my coat pocket. Wait 'till I get it. I spose it's some of her 
 old religion! She's always preaching at me. It ain't that 
 she says so much as that she's always meanin' it underneath 
 everything, that gets my goat! It's sorta like having a 
 piece of God round with you all the time watching you. You 
 kinda hate to be enjoyin' yerseif fer fear she won't think 
 yer doin' it accordin' to the Bible." 
 
 Lizzie hurtled into the hall and brought back her coat, 
 fumbling in the pocket. 
 
 " Yes, here 'tis ma ! Wanta see the figgers ? You never 
 had a whole thousand dollars in the bank t'woncet yerseif, 
 didya?" 
 
 Mrs. Brady put on her spectacles and reached for the 
 book, while Lizzie's mother got up and came behind her 
 mother's chair to look over at the magic figures. Lizzie 
 stooped for the little white note that had fluttered to her 
 feet as she opened the book, but she had little interest to 
 see what it said. She was more intent upon the new 
 bank book.
 
 212 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 It was Grandmother Brady that discovered it: 
 " Why, Lizzie ! It ain't one thousand, it's five thousand, 
 
 the book says! You don't 'spose she's made a mistake, 
 
 do you?" 
 
 Lizzie seized the book and gazed, her jaw dropping open 
 
 in amaze. "Let me have it !" demanded Lizzie's mother, 
 
 reaching for the book. 
 
 "Where's yer note, Lizzie, mebbe it'll explain,^' said 
 
 the excited Grandmother. 
 
 Lizzie recovered the note which again had fluttered to 
 
 the floor in the confusion and opening it began to read : 
 
 ''Dear Lizzie," it read 
 
 " I've made it five thousand so you will have some over 
 for furnishing your home, and if you still think you 
 want the little bungalow out on the Pike you will find the 
 deed at my lawyer's, all made out in your name. It's my 
 wedding gift to you, so you can go to work and buy your 
 furniture at once, and not wait till Dan gets a raise. 
 And here's wishing you a great deal of happiness, 
 
 'TTour loving cousin, 
 
 "Elizabeth." 
 
 "There!'* said Grandmother Brady sitting back with 
 satisfaction and holding her hands composedly, "Whadd' I 
 tellya?" 
 
 " Mercy !" said Lizzie's mother, "Let me see that note ! 
 The idea of her giving all that money when she didn't 
 have to !" 
 
 But Lizzie's face was a picture of joy. For once she lost 
 her hard little worldly screwed-up expression and was 
 wreathed in smiles of genuine eagerness:
 
 A FINAL FUGHT AND PURSUIT 213 
 
 "Oh Boy!" she exclaimed delightedly, dancing around 
 the room, "Now we can have a victrola, an' a player-piano, 
 and Dan'll get a Ford, one o' those limousine-kind! 
 Won't I be some swell? What'll the girls at the store 
 think now?" 
 
 *' H'm ! You'd much better get a washing machine and 
 a 'lectric iron !" grumbled Grandmother Brady practically. 
 
 " Well, all I got to say about it is, she was an awful 
 fool to trust you with so much money,'' said Lizzie's 
 mother discontentedly, albeit with a pleased pride as she 
 watched her giddy daughter fling on hat and coat to go 
 down and tell Dan. 
 
 " I sh'll work in the store fer the rest of the week, jest 
 to 'commodate 'em," she announced putting her head back 
 in the door as she went out, "but not a day longer. I got 
 a lot t'do. Say, won't I be some lady in the five-an'-ten 
 the rest o' the week? Oh Boy! I'll tell the world!" 
 
 Meantime in their own private car the bride and groom 
 were whirled on their way to the west, but they saw little 
 of the scenery, being engaged in the all-absorbing story of 
 each other's lives since they had parted. 
 
 And one bright morning, they stepped down from the 
 train at Malta and gazed about them. 
 
 The I sun was shining clear and wonderful, and the 
 little brown station stood drearily against the brightness 
 of the day like a picture that has long hung on the wall 
 of one's memory and is suddenly brought out and the dust 
 wiped away. 
 
 They purchased a couple of horses, and with camp 
 accoutrements following began their real wedding trip, 
 over the road they had come together when they first met. 
 Elizabeth had to show her husband where she had hidden
 
 214 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 while the men went by, and he drew her close in his arms 
 and thanked God that she had escaped so miraculously. 
 
 It seemed so wonderful to be in the same places again, 
 for nothing out here in the wilderness seemed much to 
 have changed, and yet they two were so changed that the 
 people they met did not seem to recognize them as ever 
 having been that way before. 
 
 They dined sumptuously in the same coulee, and re- 
 called little things they had said and done, and Elizabeth 
 now worldly wise, laughed at her own former ignorance as 
 her husband reminded her of some questions she had asked 
 him on that memorable journey. And ever through the 
 beautiful journey he was telling her how wonderful she 
 seemed to him, both then and now. 
 
 Not however, till they reached the old ranchhouse, where 
 the woman had tried to persuade her to stay, did they 
 stop for long. 
 
 Elizabeth had a tender feeling in her heart for that 
 motherly woman who had sought to protect her, and felt 
 a longing to let her know how safely she had been kept 
 through the long journey and how good the Lord had been to 
 her through the years. Also they both desired to reward 
 these kind people for their hospitality in the time of need. 
 So, in the early evening they rode up just as they did before 
 to the little old log house. But no friendly door flung 
 open wide as they came near, and at first they thought the 
 cabin deserted, till a candle flare suddenly shone forth in 
 the bedroom, and then Benedict dismounted and knocked. 
 
 After some waiting the old man came to the door 
 holding a candle high above his head. His face was hag- 
 gard and worn, and the whole place looked dishevelled. 
 His eyes had a weary look as he peered into the night and
 
 A FINAL FLIGHT AND PURSUIT 213 
 
 it was evident that he had no thought of ever having seen 
 them before: 
 
 " I can't do much fer ya, strangers/' he said, his yoice 
 sounding tired and discouraged. "If it's a woman ye have 
 with ye, ye hetter ride on to the next ranch. My woman is 
 sick. Very sick. There's nobody here with her but me, and 
 I have all I can tend to. The house ain't kept very tidy. 
 It's six weeks since she took to bed." 
 
 Elizabeth had sprung Lightly to the ground and was now 
 at the threshold: 
 
 " Oh, is she sick ? I'm so sorry ? Couldn't I do some- 
 thing for her ? She was good to me once several years ago !" 
 
 The old man peered at her blmkingly, noting her 
 slender beauty, the exquisite eager face, the dress that 
 showed her of another world — and shook his head : 
 
 *^ I guess you made a mistake, lady. I don't remember 
 ever seeing you before — " 
 
 "But I remember you," she said eagerly stepping into 
 the room, "Won't you please let me go to her ?" 
 
 " Why, shore, lady, go right in ef you want to. She's 
 layin' there in the bed. She ain't likely to get out of it 
 again' I'm feared. The doctor says nothin' but a *nop- 
 eration will ever get her up, and we can't pay fer 'nopera- 
 tions. It's a long ways to the hospital in Chicago where he 
 wants her sent, and M'ria and I, we ain't allowin' to part. 
 It can't be many years — '* 
 
 But Elizabeth was not waiting to hear. She had slip- 
 ped into the old bedroom that she remembered now so well 
 and was kneeling beside the bed talking to the white faced 
 woman on the thin pillow : 
 
 Don't you remember me," she asked, "I'm the girl 
 you tried to get to stay with you once. The girl that came
 
 216 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 here with a man she had met in the wilderness. You told 
 me things that I didn't know, and you were kind and wanted 
 me to stay here with you ? Don't you remember me ? I'm 
 Elizabeth!" 
 
 The woman reached out a bony hand and touched the 
 fair young face that she could see but dimly in the flare of 
 the candle that the old man now brought into the room : 
 
 '' Why, yes, I remember," the woman said, her voice 
 sounded alive yet in spite of her illness, "Yes, I remember 
 you. You were a dear little girl, and I was so worried 
 about you. I would have kept you for my own — but you 
 wouldn't stay. And he was a nice looking young man, but 
 I was afraid for you — You can't always tell about them — 
 You mostly can't — !" 
 
 " But he was all right Mother !" Elizabeth's voice rang 
 joyously through the cabin, "He took care of me and got 
 me safely started toward my people, and now he's my hus- 
 band. I want you to see him. George come here !'^ 
 
 The old woman half raised herself from the pillow and 
 looked toward the young man in the doorway : 
 
 "You don't say ! 'Rq^q ^ouy husband! Well, now isn't 
 that grand! Well, I certainly am glad! I was that 
 worried — !" 
 
 They sat around the bed talking, Elizabeth telling 
 briefly of her own experiences and her wedding trip which 
 they were taking back over the old trail, and the old man 
 and woman speaking of their trouble, the woman's break- 
 down and how the doctor at Malta said there was a chance 
 she could get well if she went to a great doctor in Chicago, 
 but how they had no money unless they sold the ranch 
 and that nobody wanted to buy it. 
 
 " Oh, but we have money," laughed Elizabeth joyously,
 
 A FINAL FLIGHT AND PURSUIT 217 
 
 "and it is our turn now to help you. You helped us when 
 we were in trouble. How soon can you start? I'm going 
 to play you are my own father and mother. We can send 
 them both, can't we George ?" 
 
 It was a long time before they settled themselves to 
 sleep that night because there was so much planning to be 
 done, and then Elizabeth and her husband had to get 
 out their stores and cook a good supper for the two old 
 people who had been living mostly on com meal mush for 
 several weeks. 
 
 And after the others were all asleep the old woman 
 lay praying and thanking God for the two angels who had 
 dropped down to help them in their distress. 
 
 The next morning George Benedict with one of the men 
 who looked after their camping outfit went to Malta and 
 got in touch with the Chicago doctor and hospital, and 
 before he came back to the ranch that night everything 
 was arranged for the immediate start of the two old people 
 He had even planned for an automobile and the Malta 
 doctor to be in attendance in a couple of days to get the 
 invalid to the station. 
 
 Meantime Elizabeth had been going over the old wo- 
 man's wardrobe which was scanty and coarse, and selecting 
 garments from her own baggage that would do for 
 the journey. 
 
 The old woman looked glorified as she touched the del- 
 icate white garments with their embroidery and ribbons: 
 
 "Oh, dear child! Why, I couldn't wear a thing like 
 that on my old worn-out body. Those look like angels' 
 clothes. She put a work-worn finger on the delicate tracery 
 of embroidery and smoothed a pink satin ribbon bow. 
 
 But Elizabeth overruled her. It was nothing but a
 
 218 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 plain little garment she had bought for the trip. If the 
 friend thought it was pretty she was glad, but nothing was 
 too pretty for the woman who had taken her in in her dis- 
 tress and tried to help her and keep her safe. 
 
 The invalid was thin with her illness, and it was found 
 that she could easily wear the girPs simple dress of dark 
 blue with a white collar, and little dark hat, and Eliza- 
 beth donned a khaki skirt and brown cap and sweater her- 
 self and gladly arrayed her old friend in her own bridal 
 travelling gown for her journey. She had not brought a 
 lot of things for her journey because she did not want to 
 be bothered, but she could easily get more when she got to 
 a large city, and what was money for but to cloth the 
 naked and feed the hungry? She rejoiced in her ability 
 to help this woman of the wilderness. 
 
 On the third day, garbed in Elizabeth's clothes, her 
 husband fitted out for the east in some of George Beite- 
 dict's extra things, they started. They carried a bag con- 
 taining some necessary changes, and some wonderful toilet 
 accesories with silver monograms, enough to puzzle the 
 most snobbish nurse, also there was a luscious silk kimona 
 of Elizabeth's in the bag. The two old people were settled 
 in the Benedict private car, and in due time hitched on to 
 the Chicago express and hurried on their way. Before the 
 younger pair went back to their pilgrimage they sent a 
 series of telegrams arranging for every detail of the jour- 
 ney for the old couple, so that they would be met with cars 
 and nurses and looked after most carefully. 
 
 And the thanksgiving and praise of the old people 
 seemed to follow them like music as they rode happib' 
 on their way.
 
 A FINAL FLIGHT AND PURSUIT 219 
 
 They paused at the little old school house where they 
 had attended the Christian Endeavor meeting, and 
 Elizabeth looked half fearfully up the road where her 
 evil pursuers had ridden by, and rode closer to her hus^ 
 band's side. So they passed on the way as nearly as 
 Elizabeth could remember every step back as she had come, 
 telling her husband all the details of the journey. 
 
 That night they camped in the little shelter where 
 Benedict had come upon the girl that first time they met, 
 and under the clear stars that seemed so near they knelt 
 together and thanked God for His leading. 
 
 They went to the lonely cabin on the mountain, shut up 
 and going to ruin now, and Benedict gazing at the sur- 
 roundings and then looking at the delicate face of his 
 lovely wife was reminded of a white flower he had once 
 seen growing out of the blackness down in a coal mine, 
 pure and clean without a smirch of soil. 
 
 They yisited the seven graves in the wilderness, and 
 standing reverently beside the sand-blown mounds she 
 told him much of her early life that she had not told him 
 before, and introduced him to her family, telling a bit 
 about each that would make him see the loveable side of 
 them. And then they planned for seven simple white 
 stones to be set up, bearing words from the book they 
 both loved. Over the care worn mother was to be written 
 '^ Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden and 
 I will give you rest.'* 
 
 It was on that trip that they planned what came to pass 
 in due time. The little cabin was made over into a simple, 
 pretty home, with vines planted about the garden, and a 
 
 ^rage with a sturdy little car; and not far away a church 
 tied into the side of the hill, built out of the stones that
 
 220 THE GIRL FROM MONTANA 
 
 were native, with many sunny windows and a belfry in 
 which bells rang out to the whole region round. 
 
 At first it had seemed impractical to put a church out 
 there away from the town, but Elizabeth said that it was 
 centrally located, and high up where it could be seen from 
 the settlements in the valleys, and was moreover on a main 
 trail that was much travelled. She longed to have some 
 such spot in the wilderness that could be a refuge for any 
 who longed for better things. 
 
 When they went back they sent out two consecrated 
 missionaries to occupy the new house and use the sturdy 
 little car. They were to ring the bells, preach the gospel 
 and play the organ and piano in the little church. 
 
 Over the pulpit there was a beautiful window bearing 
 a picture of Christ, the Good Shepherd, and in clear letters 
 above were the words: *'And thou shalt remember all the 
 way which the Lord thy God led thee these forty years in 
 the wilderness, to humble thee, and to prove thee, to know 
 what was in thine heart, whether thou wouldst keep his 
 commandments, or no." 
 
 And underneath the picture were the words: 
 
 " 'In the time of trouble He shall hide me in His pavil- 
 ion; in the secret of his tabernacle shall he hide me.' In 
 memory of His hidings, 
 
 ^'George and Elizabeth Benedict.'* 
 But in the beautiful home in Philadelphia, in an inner 
 intimate room these words are exquisitely graven on the 
 wall, "Let not your heart be troubled.'*
 
 ' f\M t VWI 1 « ■ 
 
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 ^lUBRARYQr 
 5 i ir-' ^ 
 
 University of California Library 
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