It was the hottest part of the day, and the life of the prairie seemed at a standstill. No breeze stirred the high cottonwoods; the corn blades were quiet; the birds, song-less; the frogs, hid. Resting on the fading green, looking out upon the silent reaches, she grew calm. Then she remembered her sister's confession. Again, in fancy, she was leaning down in the light of a winter fire, looking into a tear-stained face. She felt humiliation for her own weakness, and for thoughts disloyal to Marylyn. "When I see him again, I'll make him promise to come and visit her," she said. "Oh, he must! he _must_!" At last, renewed in spirit, she returned bravely to her work. But the afternoon was not without its tormenting thoughts. And she, who feared no physical danger, quailed before a temptation that was overwhelming. When the shack pointed a stubby finger toward the east, and the mules, with Simon in tag, came trailing home from their grazing, Marylyn called her. Near the door, there wafted out the good smell of corn-pone and roasting fowl. She drew up the well-bucket, hand over hand, and washed in its generous leak. Within, the night wind was changing and sweetening the air. As the younger girl bustled about, the elder put on a fresher dress, and smoothed and plaited her hair. Again, that strange elation! She was almost glad. "Supper!" sang out Marylyn. Dallas started consciously. She was standing at a window, holding before her the broken bit of looking-glass. CHAPTER XXX THE TRYST The thrashers were singing to the moon. Out of the gaping coulee came their chorus, loud, rich, and artfully melodised. It mingled, as it were, with the scent that the wind fanned from the sumach blossoms, yellowish-green. Moon, music, perfume--and lovers were to meet. The trysting-place lay in billows of frosty white, like the satin dress of a bride. Lounsbury measured it impatiently, with anxious eyes turned to the shack. At the last trumpet-strain from the fort, Dallas approached it on swift foot, her shadow flitting before. When he saw her--a slender figure--he leaped forward, eager, grateful. She saw him, and halted, raising defensive hands. "Dallas! Dallas!" He stretched out his arms to her. "No, no--no, no." As well try to stem the Missouri. He caught her close and held her. He pressed his cheek tenderly to hers. She yielded, murmuring to him. Thus--for a space that was matchlessly sweet. When, without releasing her, he lifted his head, and lifted hers by a smoothing caress of her hair. Then he searched her face long and hungrily. "Oh, Dallas, you _do_ care," he said finally, and his voice was deep with joy. She did not deny--only, "Just makes things worse," she whispered miserably. Gently he let her go. "But I love you," he answered. Her eyes were grave. They seemed to blame him. "I love you," he repeated.