It seemed an interminable time to Hope, although it was in reality less than an hour, before the breathing of the two sleepers assured her that she could leave the tent in safety.
When she stood outside, at the edge of the cut-bank, casting a quick glance over the tents behind, it seemed to her that the moonlight was brighter than ever. It was like a soft hazy day. She made her way toward a dark object on the opposite side of the brush, the same that had attracted Sydney an hour before. This time the small object did not conceal itself, but stood boldly forth.
"I thought you wasn't never comin'," said the boy softly. "It must be 'bout mornin' by now. Seems all night! We'll haf to ride like blazes if we get there now in time! They're over here," he said, leading the way along a winding trail around the side of a wooded hill.
"You're a good boy," said the girl.
"You bet I had the awfulest time gettin' away with your saddle! Every time I'd get up near it that blame cook'd pop his head out of the tent. I like to never got it a tall!"
"But you did get it," said Hope. "I saw that it wasn't there."
"Yep, an' the blanket an' bridle. I've got 'em all cached up here in the trees—horses an' everything, an' your horse is saddled. Somebody rode up while I was waitin' down there on the bank for you, an' I just had to lay low, I tell you!"
"Come, hurry!" whispered the girl. "We've got to kill our horses to-night!"
"Oh, I've got Dave's pinto, so I don't care," replied the child. Then after an instant's pause in which they reached their horses: "You couldn't kill this pinto, nohow!"
Perhaps, thought Hope, it would not kill her horse either. She trusted not, for she loved the animal dearly. But it would be a ride for their very lives if the soldiers were to reach there in time to avert the mischief.
It was a ride for their lives. Ten miles at night over a rough country, through tangled underbrush, and deep matted grass, across stony creek bottoms and rocky hills, ever onward toward Fox Creek at the speed of the wind.
Time and again the horses stumbled to their knees, but the riders might have been a part of them, so securely did they keep their seats. The pinto began to lag, at which the girl stopped for an instant, rode behind, and lashed it furiously with her strong quirt. Then for a time it kept up with the thoroughbred, but could not long continue the speed.
Upon a high knoll the girl reined up, horse and rider waiting, motionless as a carved statue, for the pinto, whose easy, graceful running gait had changed to short rabbit-like leaps.
"Wish I had another string o' horses!" gasped the child, as he at length gained the top of the hill. The girl pointed down the dwindling foot-hills to something small and white in the distance.
"See, there are the tents—a mile away. The soldiers—two troops of them—out on a pleasure trip. I will go on—you take your time, and go back with the men."
"I want to go with you," declared the boy, half crying.
"No," said the girl coaxingly. "You must be their guide, and lead them to the ledge of rocks by the sheep-shed. Think how fine it will be to be a real soldier." Then appalled by a new thought: "Oh, but if you should get tired and couldn't lead them there, how would they ever find the place? What shall I do! I can't wait for them—I must go back ahead. If he shouldn't be there! If something should have warned or detained him! What will I do!"
"Oh, shoot it all, I'll take 'em there all right!" exclaimed the boy, in a very big voice. "Don't you worry. I ain't a bit tired, an' I ain't a-goin' to be, neither!"
Hope reached over and clasped the child in her arms, a sob coming with her breath.
"My little man!" she said softly. Then instructing him to follow her, spurred up her horse to a fresh attempt, and so mad was her ride that she scarcely breathed until she dropped to the ground beside a sentinel who commanded her to halt.
How she roused the camp in the middle of the night was a story Larry O'Hara often delighted to relate. It was Larry who really came to the rescue, who shouldered the responsibility of the action, and led the troops when finally equipped to the scene of the disturbance.
And Hope rode back alone—rode so rapidly that her horse stopped, exhausted, at the foot of the big hill where she had planned the rendezvous with Livingston. There she left the noble animal and climbed up toward the summit, sometimes on her hands and knees, so tired had she become. And the moon still shone brightly along the horizon of the heavens. An hour of brilliancy, she thought, then darkness before the dawn. When she had dragged herself up the mountain side, hope and fear alternately filling her heart, and hastening her footsteps, a sudden weakness came over her as she saw on the summit the stalwart figure of Livingston. Then it seemed to her that the night had been a mere dream, or at least ridiculous. How could such a strong, brave-looking man require a girl's assistance? It was preposterous! She seemed to shrink into herself, in a little cuddled heap among the rocks.
Then a clear whistle sounded on the still air. She knew it was for her. How like a boy, she thought. She tried to answer it, but could not make a sound.
Finally she rose from the rocks and approached him—not the Hope he had expected, but a frightened, trembling girl.
He went to meet her, after the manner of a boy, and clasped the hands she gave him in his own, then kissed each one, and gravely led her to the summit upon which he had been standing.
"This rock is like a great throne," he said, "where we are going to wait our crown of happiness that is to come with the rising of the sun. Is it not so? See, you shall sit upon the throne and I here at your feet. How you are trembling, dear! And those heavy guns, why did you bring them?"
"To protect myself, perhaps, from one who is inclined to be over-bold," she replied, with a little nervous laugh as she settled herself comfortably on the throne-like rock.
"Hope!" he reproved. A red flush dyed the girl's face.
"And are you not the man?" she inquired.
"Tell me then," he said quietly, "who has a better right!"
She drew back into the very recess of the throne, away from his eyes, so convincingly near to hers.
"It's a long climb up this steep mountain," she remarked weariedly.
"And you are tired! I can see it now. But it was good of you to come to meet me here like this, Hope—sweetheart!"
"No, no! you must not talk like that!" cried the girl.
"You know I cannot help it when I am with you. I must tell you over and over that I love you—love you, Hope! Why not, when my heart sings it all the time? And have you not given me the right, dear?"
"Wait! Not now," she said more softly. "Talk about something else—anything," she gasped.
"And must I humor you, my queen," he said. "Look down and let me read in your eyes what I want to find there—then I will talk about anything, everything, until you want to hear what is in my heart!"
"Only daylight can reveal what is in my eyes," she replied. "The light of the moon is unreal, deceiving. Tell me how long you have been here, and where did you leave your horse?"
"You are evading me for some reason. If I did not believe it to be impossible, I should say that I am nervous—and that you are nervous. Can you not be yourself to me now—at this time? Why did you want me to meet you here?"
"You say you love me. Then aren't you content to just sit here in silence beside me?"
"Pardon me, dear, but my love is almost too great for silence. You will admit that." Then with a touch of amusement in his voice: "Tell me, are you angry with me that I should speak so plainly to you?"
"No, no! Of course not—only talk about something else just now. How long have you been here?"
"An eternity," he replied. "Or perhaps longer. I'm not sure. When I left you there at the camp I went directly back to the ranch. The men were all in bed. I went in and got my rifle and started over here. You see we are both armed!" he laughed, taking a Winchester from behind the throne of rocks. She took it from him and examined it minutely.
"A good gun," she remarked, handing it back.
"Then I started over here," he continued, "but had a brief interruption on the road in the shape of the old squaw that lives down in your community—old Mother White Blanket. She held me up in the road—positively held my horse so that I couldn't move while she told a story that would have brought tears to my eyes if I could have understood a word she said, and if my mind hadn't been so full of the most gloriously beautiful girl in the world.
"Finally I had sense enough to give her some money, and after repeating 'yes' innumerable times to her broken questions she finally gave me permission to proceed on my way. I left my horse down at the sheep-shed."
"Couldn't you understand anything she said to you?" questioned Hope eagerly.
"Not much," he admitted, and Hope, with a relieved little air, which he noticed, sank back among the rocks again.
A silence fell over them for a time, then Livingston raised his head and looked at the girl intently.
"I think she was trying to tell me something," he said slowly. "She said it was a warning; but I paid no attention to her delirium. I believe she tried to impress upon me that I was in danger. But I was insanely anxious to meet you. She said something that I had heard before, that you and the twins had driven away the men who attacked and killed poor Fritz that night. And this much more I think I understand now, that the 'old man,' whoever she meant, had given her a beating, that the twins were shut up in the stable or somewhere, and that you were a good girl because you had given her all your school money. That much is clear to me now. And also that she was very anxious that I should get out of the country immediately—which seems to be the sentiment of the majority of the people out here. The old woman is no doubt insane."
"Oh, yes," agreed the girl, "there's not a doubt but that she's plumb locoed! I'm glad you didn't allow anything she said to trouble your mind. She's a regular old beggar. The money was probably what she was after. You can't believe a word she says!"
"Yet she spoke convincingly," mused Livingston. "If I hadn't been so absorbed in the meeting I would have taken more heed of what she said. As it was, I passed her off as a little out of her mind. Of course, I knew you had no hand in that shooting at the corral, had you, Hope?" he asked in a somewhat anxious voice.
"A ridiculous idea for that old squaw to get in her head," replied the girl, leaning in a weary fashion back upon the rock.
Whatever suspicion Livingston had entertained vanished for the moment.
"I am glad," he said. "I don't know exactly why, but I am glad that it isn't so. I shouldn't like to think that you had done such a thing—for me."
"The moon takes a long time to set, don't you think?" she remarked. "It must be almost time for daylight."
"Are you anxious?" he inquired pointedly. She sat erect in dignified silence and did not reply.
"How much longer must you be humored, dear?" he asked, taking both of her hands within his own, and drawing her toward him. "I do not believe that the moonlight will tell lies. Look at me!"
She leaped away from him with all her young strength, and stood upon the throne of rocks, scornfully erect.
"How bad you are—how wicked to talk to me so, to even think that I would care for you one minute! Surely you must realize that I know your past, Lord Livingston! Your past!" she flashed.
"You know my past, and yet you can condemn me," he said, pain and wonderment in his quiet voice. "Perhaps you are right. I haven't always been perfect. But I am not bad—Hope! Not that! I am a man—I try to be, before God. Surely you do not mean what you say, my girl—Hope!"
"You know just what I mean," said Hope, in a voice strained and harsh. "And you know it would be absolutely impossible for me to love you!"
"Then there is nothing more to be said," replied Livingston, turning away from her. "We will not wait for the sunrise. I will go now." He walked from her with long strides.
"Wait," she cried in absolute terror. "Wait! Oh, you wouldn't be so rude as to leave me here—alone!" He stopped short, his back still toward her. "Please come back!" she begged, approaching him, "I should die of fright!" Somehow she reminded herself of Clarice. "Surely you will walk back to camp with me!"
"Yes, certainly, pardon me," he replied huskily.
As they turned, a horse came slowly toward them. Hope gave a little nervous exclamation.
"Your horse," said Livingston, reaching for the bridle. "I thought you walked."
"No—yes," replied the girl. "I walked up the hill. The horse must have followed. We will walk down and lead it. It's too steep to ride down."
But Livingston had stopped short beside the animal, his head bowed, almost upon the saddle.
"Come, shall we go?" asked the girl nervously.
Suddenly the man turned to her, sternness expressed in every line of his figure.
"Where have you been?" he commanded.
"For a ride," she replied, feeling for the first time in her life the desire to scream.
"For a ride! Yes, it must have been a ride! Your horse is nearly dead—listen to his breathing! Crusted with foam from head to foot and still dripping. You have been——"
"For the soldiers. To protect your ranch from the devils who would kill you and get rid of your sheep—this very hour!"
"And you have lured me here, away from danger—away from the side of my men, away from my duty, with all a woman's cowardice! But what of them! You have called me bad! That may be, but I am not bad enough to be grateful to you for doing this, that you may, perhaps, have intended for a kindness! Anything would have been kinder to me than what you have done to-night."
"Where are you going?" she cried from the rocks where she had thrown herself. But he was running, with all his speed, down the mountain side.
Then she knew that he was going straight into the very jaws of death. If it had been a trap set for him it could not have been any surer. In a sheep-shed far below, close to the reef of rocks above Fritz's grave, a score of men were waiting, and he was rushing toward them, down the mountain side, lighted by the white moonlight. And what was she doing, groveling there among the rocks? Like a flash she was after him, but at a speed much less than his had been.
Before she was halfway down three shots rang out. The girl clutched her heart and listened, but not a sound could be heard save the long echoes in the valley, which sounded like a dying breath.
On she sped from rock to rock, keeping ever out of sight of the shed, her senses keenly alive to the one object in view—a bit of white far below. It might have been a bunch of flowers along the hillside, but white flowers never grew there—a heap of bones, then, she thought. She made a zigzag line along the jagged ridge of rocks, closer and closer to the white object below. She wondered if he lay on his face or his back. How calm she was in the shock and terror of her grief! The light of the moon was growing dim, she had reached the very tip of the rocks, the white object was not twenty feet away, but out in the open in perfect view of the sheep-shed and the score of men it hid. Another shot broke the stillness. The white object moved, and then a moan followed, so low that none but the ears of the frenzied girl could have heard. Like an enraged lioness she sprang out into the open and dragged the heavy body up toward the shelter of rocks. Several bullets rang about her, but the increasing darkness made her an uncertain target. A couple of men ventured outside the sheep-shed, encouraged by the stillness. The girl laughed savagely, as if in glee, and pulled the man's body close to the side of rocks, covering it with her own.
"Come on," she cried to herself. "Come on, show yourselves! I shall have you all! For every pang you have made him suffer, you shall have twenty, and for his death you shall have a lingering one! Come on, come on!" Three stood outside. The addition pleased her. She laughed. Taking deliberate aim she fired again and again. Three wounded, frightened men crawled into the shelter of the shed. Then a score of bullets splashed against the rocks about her. She lifted the warm bleeding body closer under the rocks, drawing her own over it to protect it from all harm and talking frantically the while.
"The hounds, the hounds! They murdered you right in my sight, dear, and I will tear out their hearts with my hands! See, they are hiding themselves again! I can wait, yes, I can wait! My love, my love! For everything they have made you suffer! Oh, you can't be dead, dear! You can't be dead! Open your eyes and let me tell you just once I love you! Only once, dear!" She put her mouth close to his ear. "I love you, love you, love you! Only hear me once and know, dear! Know how I love you! Why didn't I tell you? I don't care if you are married a thousand times, a million times! I love you with all my life—my soul! See, he's trying to get away! But he'll never reach his horse! See! A hole right through his knee! Death is too good for them, dear. My love, speak to me just once—only know that I love you, that I am mad with love for you! Tell me that you feel my face against yours—and my kisses! See, they're crawling out like flies! and making for their horses—and now they're crawling back again so that I cannot get them. Oh, God, let me get them all! My love, my love, how I love you, and never told you so!"
With the first hint of dawn another volley came from the opposite side, and out of the gloom a rush of cavalry closed in about the sheep-shed, and ten men, most of them suffering from slight wounds, were taken captive. The man lying against the reef of rocks partially opened his eyes as Hope, with one last kiss upon his face, rose to meet a small group of riders.
"I say, Hope, it's a blasted shame we didn't get here in time to save him!" exclaimed O'Hara, with grief in his voice. "I'll just send the doctor over here at once."
While the surgeon bent over Livingston the girl stood close by, against the rocks, quiet as the stone itself.
"A bad shoulder wound," he commented at length. "A little of your flask, O'Hara, and he'll be all right. Why, he's quite conscious! How do you feel? You're all right, my boy! A shattered shoulder isn't going to bother you any, is it? Not much!"
The girl moved closer.
"Is he alive and conscious? Will he live?" she asked.
"He's all right, madam," replied the surgeon. As he spoke Livingston turned his face toward her, his eyes alight with all the love-light of his heart—answering every prayer she had breathed upon him. Her own answered his. Then she drew back, farther and farther away, until she stood outside the group of riders. O'Hara tried to detain her as she passed him.
"Why, you're wounded yourself, girl!" he exclaimed.
She looked at her sleeve, and the wet stream of blood upon her dress, and laughed. It was true, but she had not felt the wound.
"Not at all, Larry," she replied. "The blood came from him," and she pointed back to the rocks. She started on, but turned back. "Tell me," she said, "what became of little Ned."
"I sent him home," replied Larry. "The poor little chap was about all in. We met his uncle, Long Bill, riding like blazes for the doctor. It seems that those young divils of twins shot old Harris some time during the night, which stopped that faction from joining these fellows here as they had planned. A pretty lucky shot, I'm thinking! They ought to have a gold medal for it, bless their souls, but they'll both dangle from the end of a rope before they're forty, the devils, or I'll miss my guess!"
Larry looked around to speak to an officer, and before he could realize it Hope had disappeared, climbing back toward the summit of the hill where she had left her horse.
In the gulch on the opposite side she fell exhausted into the very arms of old Jim McCullen, who had returned in time to hear the shooting, and was hastening toward the scene.
"My poor little Hopie!" he cried, carrying her to the stream, where the alarmed party from the camp found them a few minutes later.
"You will drown her, Mr. McCullen!" exclaimed Clarice Van Rensselaer, rushing up quite white and breathless. "The poor darling, I just knew she'd get into trouble with all those dreadful Indians! Someone give me some whisky, quick! That's right, Sydney, make her swallow it! Here, give it to me! There!"
Louisa, stricken with grief, pointed to the damp, stiffened sleeve of the girl's shirt-waist. "See," she sobbed, "they have shot her, too, like my Fritz!"
Of them all, Mrs. Van Rensselaer was the most contained, and showed remarkable coolness and nerve in the way she ripped off the sleeve and bathed the wound, which was hardly more than a deep scratch, yet had caused considerable loss of blood.
"It's exhaustion, pure and simple," said Jim McCullen. Then he and Sydney drew away a short distance, and examined the horse.
Hope finally looked up into the anxious faces above her.
"I think, Clarice," she said, "I'll go back to New York with you."
Hope, a vision in white, leaned back resignedly in the soft embrace of the carriage cushions.
"I thought," she said, "you never visited the Grandons, Clarice, particularly since Harriet made her alliance with the titleless duke." Mrs. Van Rensselaer smiled behind the laces of her muff. "I didn't suppose you were going there this afternoon," continued the girl, with a sweeping look along the solidly built street. "How does it happen?"
"Well, you see," replied Clarice, "Larry wished it; and you know his wish is law to me—until we're married. That's only right and as it should be—the dear boy!" Then impulsively: "I don't know how I've ever lived without him, Hope! Positively, he is the dearest thing that ever lived!"
"And you'll both be tremendously happy, I know. Both of you young and gay, and in love with life and its frivolities—both the center of your set, and both rattle-brained enough to want to keep that center and throw away your lives in the whirling, rapid stream of society."
"You shouldn't ridicule this life, Hope. Don't you know we are the very pulse of the world! I had an idea you were taking to it pretty well. You are certainly making a tremendous hit. Even mamma smiles upon you in the most affectionate manner, and is proud for once of her offspring. You are simply gorgeous, Hope—a perfect queen!"
The girl's eyes darkened, her face flushed. "A queen," she retorted. "A queen! Clarice, did you ever sit upon a throne and feel the world slipping out from under you? A woman is never a queen, except to the one man. But you are mistaken, Clarice. I simply cannot adapt myself to this life. If it wasn't for the continual monotony of it all—the never changing display of good points and fine clothes—where even one's own prayers are gilded and framed in consciousness and vanity—and these streets—the reflection of it all—these blocks and blocks always the same, like the people they cover—presenting always the same money-stamped faces—oh, it is this sameness that stifles me! It is all grand and wonderful, but it isn't life." She paused, then smiled at Clarice's perplexed face. "Leave me at mamma's when you return, for I've got stacks of things to do, and I want the evening all to myself—Louisa and I, you know. And we'll say, Clarice, that I perfectly love dear old New York."
"Oh, I don't mind, dear, not at all! I know you are no more fitted in your heart for this life than I am for the life out there with those dreadful Indians. But you've certainly been acting superb these last two months!"
"You are such a dear, Clarice," said Hope impulsively, stroking her gloved hand. "I have you and Louisa, and, of course, I am perfectly happy! I tell myself so a thousand times a day. My poor little Louisa! She's about the happiest girl I ever saw in all my life, but she doesn't know it. Here she is worrying her head off because Sydney is pressing his suit too strongly and won't take 'no' for an answer, and she thinks she ought to be faithful to poor Fritz, her cousin, who is really only a sweet, sad memory to her now, while all the time she is crazy in love with Syd. Isn't it a fright? But Sydney is way out in Montana, and his letters serve only as little pricks to her poor conscience. Her replies are left mostly to me, so that is what I must do to-night."
"But your mother entertains this evening. Had you forgotten?" reminded Mrs. Van Rensselaer. "So how are you going to get away?"
"I suppose I will have to come down for awhile, but I simply will not remain long."
"Well, I will see you then. Larry and I are going to drop in for a little while in the early evening."
When they drove away from the Grandons' a half hour later Clarice searched the girl's quiet face for some expression of her thoughts, but found none.
"So you have seen the Lady Livingston at last, Hope! What do you think of her?"
The girl shrugged her shoulders and looked into the street. "Your description tallied very well," she replied.
That evening Hope met the blond Lady Helene at her mother's musicale. This time it was Clarice, again, who brought the meeting about.
Mrs. Van Rensselaer was in her gayest, most voluble mood.
"I'm so anxious to have you two get acquainted," she said. "Dear Lady Helene, this is Hope—Miss Hathaway, and she can tell you everything you want to know about the West. Do, Hope, entertain her for a few moments until I find Larry." This the girl did in her gracious way, but adroitly kept the conversation away from the West.
After a few moments Clarice returned without Larry. A shadow of disappointment crossed her face as she joined the conversation.
"I thought you were going to talk about the West, Hope," she laughed, "and here you are talking New York—nothing but New York!"
"New York is always an entertaining topic," said Lady Helene. "I do not seem to fancy the West particularly. You know Lord Livingston has recently been hurt out there, and so I do not enjoy a very kindly feeling toward that country. The poor boy! I have been so worried about him! Really, don't you know, I haven't had a good night's sleep since I heard of his injury! Yes, you know, it's a wonder he wasn't scalped! It's just fearful, really! He is so much to me, you know. Ever since my poor husband died and the title and estates fell to Edward, I have felt a great responsibility for him. He is so much younger than my husband, Lord Henry, and so, well, really, sort of wild, don't you know." Here Lady Helene smiled and wiped one eye with a filmy bit of lace. Perhaps she was saddened by thoughts of the havoc she had wrought in the life of the late lord, and his fortunes.
Hope sat motionless, suddenly paralyzed. "Do you mean," she asked, in short gasps, "that Edward—Lord Livingston is not your husband?"
"Mercy, no," replied Lady Helene, "my husband's brother! Indeed, Edward is not married! I doubt very much if he ever will be. I hope if he does, that it will be to someone at home, in his own class, don't you know! Really, he is a great responsibility to me, Mrs. Van Rensselaer! Why, where did Miss Hathaway go? She seems to be such a bright, dashing young woman. Really, one meets few American girls so royally beautiful! Yes, as I was saying, Edward is a terrible responsibility to me. Even now I am obliged to hurry away because he has just arrived here in town, and I must meet him at his hotel. That is the worst of not having a house of your own! To think of poor, dear Edward stopping at a hotel!"
"Which one?" gasped Clarice. Receiving the information, she abruptly excused herself from Lady Helene, who immediately decided that some Americans had very poor manners.
While Clarice drove rapidly toward Livingston's hotel, Hope, in eager haste, was literally throwing things in a trunk that had been pulled into the center of the room. Little Louisa, no less excited and eager, assisted.
"To think, my Louisa," laughed the girl, "that we are going back to our West—home—again, away from all this fuss and foolishness! Oh, don't be so particular, dear. Throw them in any way, just so they get in! Our train leaves at twelve, and I have telephoned for tickets, state-room and everything. Isn't it grand? Mamma will be furious! But dear old Dad, won't he be glad! He's so lonesome for me, Louisa. He says he can hardly exist there without me! And Jim, and Sydney, and—everyone! Oh, I am wild for my horses and the prairie again! And you've got to be nice to Syd! Yes, dear, it's your duty. Can't you see it? If you don't, the poor boy will go to the bad altogether, and something dreadful will happen to him! And it will be all your fault!" Which statement sent Louisa into a paroxysm of tears, not altogether sorrowful.
"You will spoil dose beautiful clothes!" she finally exclaimed, looking in dismay through her tears at the reckless packer.
"It makes no difference," laughed Hope. "What are clothes! We will have the rest sent on after us. I suppose we've forgotten half what we really need, but that doesn't matter, either, does it, my Louisa?"
Louisa dried her tears and assisted until the trunk was packed and strapped. Then they took hold of hands and danced like children around it. Suddenly Hope stopped, her face growing white and fearful.
"If he shouldn't forgive me!" she exclaimed softly.
"Ah, but he lofs you!" said Louisa.
At that moment Mrs. Van Rensselaer opened the door and looked in.
"My dear," she began, then stopped in amazement. "What in the world——Why, you are going away!"
"Yes," replied Hope, putting her head down upon Clarice's soft evening wrap. "I am going back to——"
"But he has come to you, dear, and he is waiting right here in the hall!"
"No, no!" breathed the girl.
"But he is!" exclaimed Clarice, gently pushing the girl, still in all her white evening glory of gown, into the great hall. "And he carries his arm in a sling, so do be careful!" she admonished, closing the door upon her.
From below came the indistinct murmur of many voices. Under the red glare of the lamp at the head of the broad staircase Livingston and Hope met in a happiness too great for words.
"Louisa," said Clarice Van Rensselaer, from her seat upon the trunk, "I hope you see it your duty to make a man of Sydney."
"A man," replied Louisa indignantly, "he is already de greatest man in all de whole world, and I lof him!"
Finis.
TRANSCRIBER NOTES:
Punctuation corrected without note.
page 48: "through" changed to "though" (as though talking to herself).
page 95: "bloodthristy" changed to "bloodthirsty" (more bloodthirsty than she suspected).
page 123: "protuded" changed to "protruded" (teeth protruded from her thin lips).
page 303: "upon" removed from text as redundant (patting him upon the head).
page 369: "close" changed to "closed" (just before the flap of the white tent closed upon her).