Part 18 (2/2)

”Before he went up to Wyandotte to work they were--he said so, anyhow.”

Then we forgot Lettie. She wasn't necessary to us that day, for there were only two in our world.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”Baronet, I think we are marching straight into h.e.l.l's jaws”]

Out on the prairie trail a mile or more is the point where the bridle path leading to the river turns northwest, and pa.s.sing over a sidling narrow way down the bluff, it follows the bottom lands upstream. As we pa.s.sed this point we did not notice Tell Mapleson's black pony just making the top from the sidling bluff way, nor how quickly its rider wheeled and headed back again down beyond sight of the level prairie road. We had forgotten Lettie Conlow and everybody else.

The draw was the same old verdant ripple in the surface of the Plains.

The gra.s.ses were fresh and green. Toward the river the cottonwoods were making a cool, shady way, delightfully refres.h.i.+ng in this summer suns.h.i.+ne.

We did not hurry, for the draw was full of happy memories for us.

”I'll corral these bronchos up under the big cottonwood, and we'll explore appurtenances down by the river later,” I said. ”Father says every foot of the half-section ought to be viewed from that tree, except what's in the little clump about the cabin.”

We drove up to the open prairie again and let the horses rest in the shade of this huge pioneer tree of the Plains. How it had escaped the prairie fires through its years of st.u.r.dy growth is a marvel, for it commanded the highest point of the whole divide. Its shade was delicious after the glare of the trail.

For once the ponies seemed willing to stand quiet, and Marjie and I looked long at the magnificent stretch of sky and earth. There were a few white clouds overhead, deepening to a dull gray in the southwest.

All the sunny land was swathed in the midsummer yellow green, darkening in verdure along the river and creeks, and in the deepest draws. Even as we rested there the clouds rolled over the horizon's edge, piling higher and higher, till they hid the afternoon sun, and the world was cool and gray. Then down the land sped a summer shower; and the sweet damp odor of its refres.h.i.+ng the south wind bore to us, who saw it all. Sheet after sheet of glittering raindrops, wind-driven, swept across the prairie, and the cool green and the silvery mist made a scene a master could joy to copy.

I didn't forget my errand, but it was not until the afternoon was growing late that we left the higher ground and drove down the shady draw toward the river. The Neosho is a picture here, with still expanses that mirror the trees along its banks, and stony shallows where the water, even in midsummer, prattles merrily in the suns.h.i.+ne, as it hurries toward the deep stillnesses.

We sat down in a cool, gra.s.sy s.p.a.ce with the river before us, and the green trees shading the little stone cabin beyond us, while down the draw the vista of still sunlit plains was like a dream of beauty.

”Marjie,”--I took her hand in mine--”since you were a little girl I have known you. Of all the girls here I have known you longest. In the two years I was East I met many young ladies, both in school and at Rockport. There were some charming young folks. One of them, Rachel Melrose, was very pretty and very wealthy. Her mother made considerable fuss over me, and I believe the daughter liked me a little; for she--but never mind; maybe it was all my vanity. But, Marjie, there has never been but one girl for me in all this world; there will never be but one.

If Jean Pahusca had carried you off--Oh, G.o.d in Heaven! Marjie, I wonder how my father lived through the days after my mother lost her life. Men do, I know.”

I was toying with her hand. It was soft and beautifully formed, although she knew the work of our Springvale households.

”Marjie,” my voice was full of tenderness, ”you are dear to me as my mother was to my father. I loved you as my little playmate; I was fond of you as my girl when I was first beginning to care for a girl as boys will; as my sweetheart, when the liking grew to something more. And now all the love a man can give, I give to you.”

I rose up before her. They call me vigorous and well built to-day. I was in my young manhood's prime then. I looked down at her, young and dainty, with the sweet grace of womanhood adorning her like a garment.

She stood up beside me and lifted her fair face to mine. There was a bloom on her cheeks and her brown eyes were full of peace. I opened my arms to her and she nestled in them and rested her cheek against my shoulder.

”Marjie,” I said gently, ”will you kiss me and tell me that you love me?”

Her arms were about my neck a moment. Sometimes I can feel them there now. All shy and sweet she lifted her lips to mine.

”I do love you, Phil,” she murmured, and then of her own will, just once, she kissed me.

”It is vouchsafed sometimes to know a bit of heaven here on earth,” Le Claire had said to me when he talked of O'mie's father.

It came to me that day; the cool, green valley by the river, the vine-covered old stone cabin, the sunlit draw opening to a limitless world of summer peace and beauty, and Marjie with me, while both of us were young and we loved each other.

The lengthening shadows warned me at last.

”Well, I must finish up this investigation business of Judge Baronet's,”

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