Within the uncomfortably low, dim room the visitor impetuously crossed the earthen floor half-way to a rude bunk built against the wall, then paused, her round, childlike face soberly lengthening. "Mollie, you have been crying!" she charged, resentfully, as if the act constituted a personal offence. "You can't deceive me. The pillow is soaked, and your eyes are red." She came forward, impulsively, and threw herself on the bed, her arm about the other. "What is it? Tell me--your friend--Annie." Beneath the light coverlet, Mollie Babcock made a motion of deprecation, almost of repugnance. "It is nothing. Please don't pay any attention to me." "But it _is_ something. Am I not your friend?" For a moment neither spoke. Annie Warren all at once became conscious that the other woman was looking at her in a way she had never done before. "Assuredly you are my friend, Annie. But just the same, it's nothing." The look altered until it became a smile. "Tell me, instead, why you are here," Mollie went on. "It is not usual at this time of day." Annie Warren felt the rebuff, and she was hurt. "It is nothing." The visitor was on her feet, her voice again resentful; her chin was held high, while her long lashes drooped. "Pardon me for intruding, for--" "Annie!" No answer save the quiver of a sensitive red lip. "Annie, child, pardon me. I wouldn't for the world hurt you; but it is so hard, what you ask." Mollie Babcock rose, now, likewise. "However, if you wish--" "No, no!" The storm was clearing. "It was all my fault. I know you'd rather not." She had grasped Mollie's arms, and was forcing her backward, toward the bunk, gently, smilingly. "Be still. I've something to tell you. Are you quite ready to listen?" "Yes, I'm quite ready." "You haven't the slightest idea what it is? You couldn't even guess?" "No, I couldn't even guess." "I'll tell you, then." The plump Annie was bubbling like a child before a well-filled Christmas stocking. "It's Jack: he's coming this very day. A big, fierce Indian brought the letter this morning." She sat down tailor fashion on the end of the bunk. "He nearly ate up Susie--Jack christened her Susie because she's a Sioux--because she wouldn't let him put the letter right into my own hand. That's why I'm up so early." She looked slyly at the woman on the bed. "Who do you suppose is coming with him?" she asked. "I'm sure I don't know," in a tone of not caring, either. "Guess, Mollie!" "Steve?" "Of course--Steve. You knew all the time, only you wouldn't admit it. Oh, I'm so glad! I want to hug some one. Isn't it fine?" "Yes, fine indeed. But you don't mean that you want to hug Steve?" "No, goose. You know I meant Jack; but I--" She regarded her friend doubtfully. But Mollie Babcock was dressing rapidly, and her face was averted. "And Mollie, I didn't tell you all--almost the best. We're going home, Jack says; going right away; this very week, maybe."