“Besides,” she reflected, “if even I can do nothing with her, what a mess THEY’D make of it! We should hear of her elopement next.” So Molly’s immediate family never saw that photograph, and never heard a word from her upon this subject. But on the day that she left for Bear Creek, as they sat missing her and discussing her visit in the evening, Mrs. Bell observed: “Mother, how did you think she was?”--“I never saw her better, Sarah. That horrible place seems to agree with her.”--“Oh, yes, agree. It seemed to me--“--“Well?”--“Oh, just somehow that she was thinking.”--“Thinking?”--“Well, I believe she has something on her mind.”--“You mean a man,” said Andrew Bell.--“A man, Andrew?”--“Yes, Mrs. Wood, that’s what Sarah always means.” It may be mentioned that Sarah’s surmises did not greatly contribute to her mother’s happiness. And rumor is so strange a thing that presently from the malicious outside air came a vague and dreadful word--one of those words that cannot be traced to its source. Somebody said to Andrew Bell that they heard Miss Molly Wood was engaged to marry a RUSTLER. “Heavens, Andrew!” said his wife; “what is a rustler?” It was not in any dictionary, and current translations of it were inconsistent. A man at Hoosic Falls said that he had passed through Cheyenne, and heard the term applied in a complimentary way to people who were alive and pushing. Another man had always supposed it meant some kind of horse. But the most alarming version of all was that a rustler was a cattle thief. Now the truth is that all these meanings were right. The word ran a sort of progress in the cattle country, gathering many meanings as it went. It gathered more, however, in Bennington. In a very few days, gossip had it that Molly was engaged to a gambler, a gold miner, an escaped stage robber, and a Mexican bandit; while Mrs. Flynt feared she had married a Mormon. Along Bear Creek, however, Molly and her “rustler” took a ride soon after her return. They were neither married nor engaged, and she was telling him about Vermont. “I never was there,” said he. “Never happened to strike in that direction.” “What decided your direction?” “Oh, looking for chances. I reckon I must have been more ambitious than my brothers--or more restless. They stayed around on farms. But I got out. When I went back again six years afterward, I was twenty. They was talking about the same old things. Men of twenty-five and thirty--yet just sittin’ and talkin’ about the same old things. I told my mother about what I’d seen here and there, and she liked it, right to her death. But the others--well, when I found this whole world was hawgs and turkeys to them, with a little gunnin’ afteh small game throwed in, I put on my hat one mawnin’ and told ’em maybe when I was fifty I’d look in on ’em again to see if they’d got any new subjects. But they’ll never. My brothers don’t seem to want chances.” “You have lost a good many yourself,” said Molly. “That’s correct.”