The journey with the misanthrope was but a repetition of that first day’s staging—the sage-brush was scarcer, the mountains seemed as far off as ever, and the outlook was, if possible, more desolate. The entry in Miss Carmichael’s diary, inscribed in malformed characters as the stage jolted over ruts and gullies, reads: “I do not mind telling you, in strictest confidence, ‘Dere Diary’—as the little boy called you—that when I so lightly severed my connection with civilization, I had no idea to what an extent I was going in for the prairie primeval. How on earth does a woman who can write a letter like Mrs. Yellett stand it? And where on the map of North America is Lost Trail?” “Land sakes!” regretted the fat lady, “but I do wish I had a piece of that ‘boy’s favorite’ cake that I had for my lunch the day we left town. I just ate and ate it ’cause I hadn’t another thing to do. If I hadn’t been so greedy I could offer him a piece, just to show him that some women folk have kind hearts, and that the whole sect ain’t like that Pink.” “Boy’s favorite,” as adequate compensation for shattered ideals, a broken heart, and the savings of a lifetime, seemed to Mary Carmichael inadequate compensation, but she forbore to express her sentiments. The fat lady had never relaxed her gaze from Chugg’s back since the stage had started. She peered at that broad expanse of flannel shirt through the tiny round window, like a careful sailing-master sweeping the horizon for possible storm-clouds. At every portion of the road presenting a steep decline she would prod Chugg in the back with the handle of her ample umbrella, and demand that he let her out, as she preferred walking. The stage-driver at first complied with these requests, but when he saw they threatened to become chronic, he would send his team galloping down grade at a rate to justify her liveliest fears. “Do you think you are a-picnicking, that you crave roominating round these yere solitoodes?” And the misanthrope cracked his whip and adjured his team with cabalistic imprecations. “Did you notice if Mrs. Dax giv’ him any cold coffee, same as she did us?” anxiously inquired the fat lady from her lookout. Mary hadn’t noticed. “He’s drinking something out of a brown bottle—seems to relish it a heep more’n he would cold coffee,” reported the watch. “Hi there! Hi! Mr. Chugg!” The stage-driver, thinking it was merely a request to be allowed to walk, continued to drive with one hand and hold the brown bottle with the other. But even his too solid flesh was not proof against the continued bombardment of the umbrella handle. “Um-m-m,” he grunted savagely, applying a watery eye to the round window. “Nothing,” answered the fat lady, quite satisfied at having her worst fears confirmed. Chugg returned to his driving, as one not above the weakness of seeing and hearing things. “’Tain’t coffee.” “Could you smell it?” questioned Mary, anxiously.