“Confound the fellow! Why did he say that to me? It can’t be that he suspects—but no, that is impossible. There is something confoundedly disreputable about a divorce, that’s a fact. But this double life is risky, especially with such a keen-witted wife as Elinor, and Berenice is so determined, and insists—well, time enough to think of this later. It’s a relief to know that Elinor is where she need not hear all the gossip of the clubs.” CHAPTER XXIX DRIFTING “Now Autumn’s fire burns slowly along the woods, And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt, And night by night the monitor blast Wails in the keyhole, telling how it passed O’er empty fields, or upland solitudes, Or grim wide nave; and now the power is felt Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods Than any joy indulgent Summer dealt.” —Allingham. The autumnal days were nearly gone, and occasionally was felt the sharp tooth of the biting wind as it swept over the open prairie and drove the Westerner into his cabin, with a tingling warning in his ears that winter was soon to come. Then again the sun would shine brightly and the soft graces and tints of Indian summer would brighten the landscape. The weeks had brought a degree of calmness and resignation to Elinor Wylie, and to Tibby varied experiences. For some reason, though Donald Bartram spent most of his spare time with her, she preferred not to be recognized as the object of his affections. Poor Esther McCleary’s disappearance was too recent, and although nothing definite had been known as to Donald’s interest in her, the gossips of the neighborhood had been pleased to couple their names together. It was not certain that Esther was dead. She might purposely have hidden herself from Professor Russell, and if so might return at any time, now that the man came no more to the community. It ill became Donald to give so much time to this fair enchantress who deserved so little consideration from him. Of all the provoking, undisciplined minxes, Tibby appeared the worst. Alice and Nellie wondered daily at his forbearance, and commented on Tibby’s behavior. As for Donald himself, he was drifting with the tide of events, and the pastime pleased him too well to care to interrupt it by very serious thoughts or determinations. Tibby was interesting. He enjoyed her society. That was sufficient. To-day he had claimed Tibby for a ride to the post, and as they came cantering slowly along the soft gray turf, Tibby with her riding-hat tipped back from her wide, smooth forehead, her feline eyes half closed from the sun’s bright rays, her dark hair partly escaped from comb and pin, and fluttering in curled rings about her face, her red lips half parted above the white teeth, she looked to the man a disheveled Hebe, too adorable, too incomprehensible to withstand.