"I felt his refusal a little," he said. "I could have spared the
money, and I was a friend of his."

He had proved a staunch friend, though he had been hardly tried. For
several years he had been Sylvia's devoted servant, and an admirer of
the more accomplished Marston. When the girl chose the latter it was a
cruel blow to George, for he had never regarded his comrade as a
possible rival; but after a few weeks of passionate bitterness, he had
quietly acquiesced. He had endeavored to blame neither; though there
were some who did not hold Sylvia guiltless. George was, as she well
knew, her faithful servant still; and this was largely why she meant to
tell him her tragic story.

"Well," she said, "when I first went out to the prairie, I was almost
appalled. Everything was so crude and barbarous--but you know the
country."

George merely nodded. He had spent a few years in a wheat-growing
settlement, inhabited by well-bred young Englishmen. The colony,
however, was not conducted on economic lines; and when it came to
grief, George, having come into some property on the death of a
relative, returned to England.

"Still," continued Sylvia, "I tried to be content, and blamed myself
when I found it difficult. There was always so much to do--cooking,
washing, baking--one could seldom get any help. I often felt worn out
and longed to lie down and sleep."

"I can understand that," said George, with grave sympathy. "It's a
very hard country for a woman."