The waters of the Smoky Hill flowed yellow, flecked with foam, beside our camp, where, in a little grove of cottonwood trees, we rested from a long day's march. The heat of a late Kansas summer day was fanned away at twilight by the cool prairie breeze. There was an appealing something in the air that evening hour that made me homesick. So I went down beside the river to fight out my daily battle and let the wide spaces of the landscape soothe me, and all the opal tints of sunset skies and the soft radiance of a prairie twilight bring me their inspiration. Each day my heart-longing for the girl I must not love grew stronger. I wondered, as I sat here to-night, what trail would open for me when Beverly and Eloise should meet again, as lovers must meet some time. We had not once spoken her name between us, Bev and I, in all the days and nights since we had been in service on the plains. As I sat lonely, musing vaguely of a score of things that all ran back to one fair face, Beverly dropped down beside me. His face was grave and his eyes had a gentle, pleading look, something strange and different from the man whose moods I knew. "I'm homesick, Gail." He smiled as he spoke, and all the boy of all the years was in that smile. "So am I, Bev. It must be in the water here," I replied, lightly. But neither one misunderstood the other. "I'd like to see Little Lees to-night. Wouldn't you?" he asked, suddenly. The question startled me. Maybe my cousin wanted to confide in me here. I would not be selfish with him. "Yes, I always like to see her. Why to-night, though?" I asked, encouragingly. Beverly looked steadily into my face. "I want to tell you something, Gail. I haven't dared to speak before, but something tells me I should speak to-night," he said slowly. I looked away along the winding valley of the Smoky Hill. I must hear it some time. Why be a coward now? "Say on, I'm always ready to hear anything from you, Beverly." I tried to speak firmly, and I hoped my voice did not seem faltering to him. He sat silent a long while. Then he rose and straightened to his full height--a splendid form of strength and wholesomeness and grace. "I'll tell you some time soon, but not to-night. Honor is something with me yet." And so he left me. I dreamed of him that night with Eloise. And all of us were glad. I wakened suddenly. Beverly was standing near me. He turned and walked away, his upright form and gait, even in the faint light, individually Bev's own. I saw him lie down and draw his blanket about him, then sit up a moment, then nestle down again. Something went wrong with sleep and me for a long time, and once I called out, softly: "Bev, can't you sleep?" "Oh, shut up! Not if you fidget about me," he replied, with the old happy-go-lucky toss of the head and careless tone.