“Do you think I am likely to forget you?” “Oh, no. I am too conceited for that.” “There is one thing I should like. You know, it is possible--anything is possible--I might not come back.” “Don’t, don’t say that!” Alison looked at him in alarm. “Is it going to be very, very dangerous?” “Not more so than any other undertaking. Not as much so as going to war or as heaps of Injun fights.” “Oh, then, I don’t feel so badly as if it were something worse. And what is it I can give you?” He took both her hands, the ring clasped between them. “You can give me one kiss to remember,” he said very gravely, very tenderly. She dropped her eyes to the strong muscular hands enfolding hers. Over her came a partial realization of what he was about to do for her sake, of what he might have to endure before she should see him again. She lifted her face as a child might and he kissed her gently. Then he released her hands and stood looking at her. The red blood rushed to her cheeks. She seemed so young, so innocent, that he felt a reverence for her as truly as did any knight for his lady. At this moment Christine’s voice was heard calling: “Alison, Alison, where are you?” “Oh, I must go,” murmured the girl. And still clasping her ring she caught the limb of the tree, found her foothold and reached the road, leaving Neal to follow. She held out the ring in her palm when she came up to her sister standing on the step. “See, see, my present,” she said exultantly. “Isn’t it beautiful?” Christine took the ring and examined it carefully. Then she looked at the girl searchingly, but Alison’s eager face showed no consciousness. “It is beautiful,” said Christine. “Are you going to wear it?” A soft color swept over Alison’s face. “No, not yet,” she said. And, passing her sister, she went into the house. Christine looked after her and sighed gently. The next morning Neal took his departure, his last smile and hand clasp for Alison. “I’ll come back as soon as I can,” he said. “And you will write?” she asked. “If I can. If I have anything to tell.” And he rode away. “My knight goes forth,” whispered Alison to herself. She watched him between the waving sweep of prairie till he was lost to view. Then she turned to her sister and said wistfully, “Oh, Christine, I shall miss him so, I shall miss him so.” “Why, my dear, my dear,” Christine looked with tender concern at the eyes full of tears, “does it matter so much to you?” “I don’t know, I don’t know,” replied Alison rushing up to her room. All day long she thought of him who had ridden towards the west. In the evening she got out her copy of the “Faerie Queen” and pored over it till her mind was full of the terrors of the forest, of hidden foes, of wounded knights, of desperate combats, and she dreamed of them and, waking in the middle of the night, started up imagining she saw Neal in the hands of fierce Indians. “The Apaches! The Apaches!” she cried out, and sank down on her pillow sobbing convulsively.