Betsy had the open fire practically to herself; and she sat before it, ruminating deeply. It seemed strange to think of Rosalie so near and yet so far. How she longed to get out into that forbidden department and lend the aid of her capable hands to whatever work the young girl was doing. She wondered what a day would bring forth. Possibly she should not see Rosalie again; and if the girl were sent on with them to-morrow to the Old Faithful Inn, she knew that the Bruces’ plan was to remain there for a few days, and there she would doubtless lose her definitely. “Mrs. Bruce used to call her her protégée!” she thought. A long determined breath came from Betsy’s breast. “She’s goin’ to be Betsy Foster’s protégée now, and I ain’t goin’ to lose sight of her.” She continued to look thoughtfully into the leaping flames, and even her practical common sense was not proof against their age-long ability to show the gazer alluring possibilities. A certain rough seaman mending his sail in far-off Yankee land little realized that, could his canvas be turned into a magic carpet, this was his psychological moment. “I suppose,” Betsy was reflecting, “’tain’t Mrs. Pogram’s fault that she hasn’t as much backbone as a jelly-fish.” A broad, strong flame flew squarely up toward the chimney. “I suppose if—if I ever was—soft enough—to— Well, Hiram’s a good soul. He’d be kind as any father to Rosalie.” Betsy suddenly realized that the fire was making her face hot, and she put up her hand to shield it. * * * * * Meanwhile Hiram Salter was placidly sitting cross-legged over his prostrate sail. A piece of twine held in his lips fell down each side of his chin, giving him some resemblance to a gigantic catfish. A few days later he received a picture-postal from the Fountain House Hotel in the Yellowstone. It was dated on the evening when Betsy sat so long before the fire; and it read,— DEAR H.: Cold as Xmas here. B. F. And the good man never suspected that in reality it had never been as little cold for him in all his years of courtship as on the evening when that postal card was bought; and that in place of the curt message might truly have run a bit from Rosalie Vincent’s repertoire:— Never the time and the place, And the loved one, all together. The next morning dawned bright. If Rosalie was in the breakfast-room, Betsy did not see her. When later she entered the back seat of the last stage, Betsy looked about anxiously. Irving came to the step. “Mrs. Bruce and Nixie are up there with the driver. I’m coming in with you,” he said. “Just wait one minute, Mr. Irving,” returned Betsy. “If—if that young—waitress is going along with us, she’d feel—sort of embarrassed if—” “Well—well,”—Irving looked up into the narrow face and laughed,—“this is the first time you ever turned me down.”