The little county seat awoke in the morning to a strange sight. The storm had not abated. The wind was still blowing at blizzard rate off the northwest hills, and fine, icy snow was swirling so thickly through the cold air that vision was obstructed. Buildings were distinguishable only as shadows showing faintly through a heavy white veil. The thermometer had gone many degrees below the zero mark. It was steadily growing colder. The older inhabitants said it would surely break the record the coming night. An immense fire had been built in the sitting-room. Thither Mary and Louise repaired. Here they were joined by Dale, Langford, and Gordon. “You should be out at the ranch looking after your poor cattle, Mr. Langford,” said Mary, smilingly. She could be light-hearted now,—since a little secret had been whispered to her last night at a tea party where no tea had been drunk. Langford had gravitated toward her as naturally as steel to a magnet. He shrugged his big shoulders and laughed a little. “The Scribe will do everything that can be done. Honest, now, did you think this trial could be pulled off without me?” “But there can be no trial to-day.” “Why not?” “Did I dream the court-house burned last night?” “If you did, we are all dreamers alike.” “Then how can you hold court?” “We have gone back to the time when Church and State were one and inseparable, and court convenes at ten o’clock sharp in the meeting-house,” he said. Louise was looking white and miserable. “You are not contemplating running away, are you?” asked Gordon. “This is unusual weather—really.” She looked at him with a pitiful smile. “I should like to be strong and brave and enduring and capable—like Mary. You don’t believe it, do you? It’s true, though. But I can’t. I’m weak and homesick and cold. I ought not to have come. I am not the kind. You said it, too, you know. I am going home just as soon as this court is over. I mean it.” There was no mistaking that. Gordon bowed his head. His face was white. It had come sooner than he had thought.