Poor little Ellie, starved for her friend's confidence, shrinking with dread of what the future might bring her, and yet longing to meet and greet that danger, was half the time full of an unnatural gaiety, half the time moody and preternaturally grave and silent. One night, when she and Aunt Clara sat in the front door of the hut, watching the moonrise in unequaled splendor over the gap in Rock Canyon, they heard a horseman coming up the street, and in a moment he appeared in front of their gate. His cheery "whoa" to his animal caused Ellen to run hastily out, exclaiming, "Why, it's John Stevens! Oh you dear old John, how glad I am to see you!" and as John sprang from his horse, she threw her arms around his neck, as if he were her own dear brother, and thus she sobbed out her joy and her vague fears on his friendly shoulder. The tall, silent man allowed her to cry until she was calmed, and while he felt every throb of her tenderness in his own responsive soul, he felt, too, that underneath it all, there was something deeper and more serious than he could at present fathom. He left that to a future, better understanding, however, and contented himself with gently stroking her soft brown braids, while he chatted with Aunt Clara about matters of interest to both. Once inside the house, and John's supper over, Ellen seemed a very spirit of mischievous attraction. She fluttered around her great, big, red-bearded friend; and with the sweetest smiles and most coaxing fascination, seemed a very magnet of charm. John did not try to resist this unconscious effort of Ellie's to be winsome and loving as he sat with his eyes bent gravely upon her, occasionally answering her witty sallies; inwardly, however, he was anxious to unravel the whole of this perplexing, if delightful, mystery. Aunt Clara noted all these things, for when did she ever fail to see all there was to be seen when she was present? But she wisely left the young people to arrange their own affairs, discreetly proceeding with her knitting, and putting in a remark now and then, only as occasion seemed to require. Was Ellen in love with him? This was the question which forced itself upon John's mind, in spite of his modesty. Or, was there something else which caused all this excitement? XXII. IF YOU LOVE ME, JOHN The question with which John Stevens troubled himself is one which any modest man dislikes to put to himself. If love comes in answer to the solicitation of love, the question is rarely asked; but if love has come from an unexpected source, the result is an effort to reciprocate that affection, or else a vague annoyance, a feeling of being injured in some inexplicable way, which will intrude upon the consciousness.