But some sentences at the end made her pause and sit still for a long while. The severity upon her face changed to tenderness, gradually. “Ah, me,” she sighed. “If marriage were as simple as love!” Then she went slowly downstairs, and out into her garden, where she walked long between the box borders. “But if she has found a great love,” said the old lady at length. And she returned to her bedroom, and opened an old desk, and read some old letters. There came to her the next morning a communication from Bennington. This had been penned frantically by poor Mrs. Wood. As soon as she had been able to gather her senses after the shock of her daughter’s eleven pages and the postscript, the mother had poured out eight pages herself to the eldest member of the family. There had been, indeed, much excuse for the poor lady. To begin with, Molly had constructed her whole opening page with the express and merciful intention of preparing her mother. Consequently, it made no sense whatever. Its effect was the usual effect of remarks designed to break a thing gently. It merely made Mrs. Wood’s head swim, and filled her with a sickening dread. “Oh, mercy, Sarah,” she had cried, “come here. What does this mean?” And then, fortified by her elder daughter, she had turned over that first page and found what it meant on the top of the second. “A savage with knives and pistols!” she wailed. “Well, mother, I always told you so,” said her daughter Sarah. “What is a foreman?” exclaimed the mother. “And who is Judge Henry?” “She has taken a sort of upper servant,” said Sarah. “If it is allowed to go as far as a wedding, I doubt if I can bring myself to be present.” (This threat she proceeded to make to Molly, with results that shall be set forth in their proper place.) “The man appears to have written to me himself,” said Mrs. Wood. “He knows no better,” said Sarah. “Bosh!” said Sarah’s husband later. “It was a very manly thing to do.” Thus did consternation rage in the house at Bennington. Molly might have spared herself the many assurances that she gave concerning the universal esteem in which her cow-puncher was held, and the fair prospects which were his. So, in the first throes of her despair, Mrs. Wood wrote those eight not maturely considered pages to the great-aunt. “Tut, tut, tut!” said the great-aunt as she read them. Her face was much more severe to-day. “You’d suppose,” she said, “that the girl had been kidnapped! Why, she has kept him waiting three years!” And then she read more, but soon put the letter down with laughter. For Mrs. Wood had repeated in writing that early outburst of hers about a savage with knives and pistols. “Law!” said the great-aunt. “Law, what a fool Lizzie is!”