The unavoidable exigencies of a choir practice compelled Mr. Wynkoop to retire early, nor was it yet late when the more intimate family circle also dissolved, and the two girls discovered themselves alone. Naida drew down the shades and lit the lamp. Miss Spencer slowly divested herself of her outer dress, replacing it with a light wrapper, encased her feet snugly in comfortable slippers, and proceeded to let down her flossy hair in gleaming waves across her shoulders. Naida's dark eyes bespoke plainly her admiration, and Miss Spencer shook back her hair somewhat coquettishly. "Do you think I look nice?" she questioned, smilingly. "You bet I do. Your hair is just beautiful, Miss Spencer." The other permitted the soft strands to slip slowly between her white fingers. "You should never say 'you bet,' Naida. Such language is not at all lady-like. I am going to call you Naida, and you must call me Phoebe. People use their given names almost entirely out here in the West, don't they?" "I never have had much training in being a lady," the young girl explained, reddening, "but I can learn. Yes, I reckon they do mostly use the first names out here." "Please don't say 'I reckon,' either; it has such a vulgar sound. What is his given name?" "Whose?" "Why, I was thinking of Mr. Wynkoop." "Howard; I saw it written in some books he loaned me. But the people here never address him in that way." "No, I suppose not, only I thought I should like to know what it was." There was a considerable pause; then the speaker asked, calmly, "Is he married?" "Mr. Wynkoop? Why, of course not; he does n't care for women in that way at all." Miss Spencer bound her hair carefully with a bright ribbon. "Maybe he might, though, some time. All men do." She sat down in the low rocker, her feet comfortably crossed. "Do you know, Naida dear, it is simply wonderful to me just to remember what you have been through, and it was so beautifully romantic--everybody killed except you and that man, and then he saved your life. It's such a pity he was so miserable a creature." "He was n't!" Naida exclaimed, in sudden, indignant passion. "He was perfectly splendid." "Aunt Lydia did n't think so. She wrote he was a common gambler,--a low, rough man." "Well, he did gamble; nearly everybody does out here. And sometimes I suppose he had to fight, but he wasn't truly bad." Miss Spencer's eyes evinced a growing interest. "Was he real nice-looking?" she asked. Naida's voice faltered. "Ye--es," she said. "I thought so. He--he looked like he was a man." "How old are you, Naida?" "Nearly eighteen." Miss Spencer leaned impulsively forward, and clasped the other's hands, her whole soul responding to this suggestion of a possible romance, a vision of blighted hearts. "Why, it is perfectly delightful," she exclaimed. "I had no idea it was so serious, and really I don't in the least blame you. You love him, don't you, Naida?"