Two hours had passed. The girl had breakfasted. A wood fire crackled cheerfully in the sheet iron heater of the tiny room where the same two people sat alone. Already the world had taken on a different aspect. Not that Elizabeth Landor had forgotten that recent incident at the depot. She would never forget it. It had merely passed into temporary abeyance, taken its proper place in the eternal scheme of things. Another consideration, paramount, all-compelling, had inevitably crowded it from the stage. It was this consideration that had held her silent far longer than was normal. It was its overshadowing influence that at last prompted speech. "How did you know I was coming to-day?" she queried suddenly. "How did _you_ know I would be at the train to meet you?" echoed a voice. The girl did not answer, did not pursue the subject. "Tell me of Aunt Mary, please," she digressed. "I felt somehow when you wrote as if I--I--" A swiftly gathered shower called a halt. Tear drops, ever so near, stood in her eyes. "Please tell me," she completed. The man told her. It did not take long. As of her prosaic life, so there was little to record of the death of Mary Landor. "It was best that you were away," he ended. "It was best for her that she went when she did." "You think so, How, honestly?" No affectation in that anxious query. "You think I didn't do wrong in leaving as I did?" "No, you did no wrong, Bess." A pause. "You could not." A moment the girl sat looking at him; in wonder and something more. "I believe you knew all the time Aunt Mary would--go while I was away," she said suddenly, tensely. "I believe you helped me away on purpose." No answer. "Tell me, How. I want to know." "I thought so, Bess," simply. For a long time the girl sat so; silent, marvelling. A new understanding of this solitary human stole over her, an appreciation that drowned the sadness of a moment ago. "How you must care for me," she voiced almost unconsciously. "How you must care for me!" She did not expect an answer. She was not disappointed. Again a silence fell; a silence of which she was unconscious, for she was thinking. Minutes passed. In the barn the bronchos were passively waiting. At the parsonage the young minister still sat scowling in his study. No time had been set for the visit he expected. There was no apparent reason why he should not have gone about his work; but for some reason he could not. Angry with himself, he thrust the new half eagle into his pocket and, placing the offending licence beneath a pile of papers, he walked over to the window and stood staring out into the sunshine. Within the tiny room at the hotel the gaze of the girl shifted, dropped to her feet. Despite an effort her face tinged slowly red. "Did you think," she queried abruptly, "when you expected me to-day that I would come alone?" The Indian showed no surprise. "Yes, Bess," he answered. "I knew you would be alone." "Why, How?" The question was just audible.