Myrtle Baker was a chatterer by nature. She talked incessantly; and,
though she asked many questions, she did not wait for half of them to be
answered. Besides, the traveller had grown wary. She did not intend to
talk about the relationship between herself and her travelling companion.
There was a charm in Myrtle's company which made the girl half regret
leaving the next morning, as they did quite early, amid protests from
Myrtle and her mother, who enjoyed a visitor in their isolated home.

But the ride that morning was constrained. Each felt in some subtle way
that their pleasant companionship was coming to a crisis. Ahead in that
town would be letters, communications from the outside world of friends,
people who did not know or care what these two had been through together,
and who would not hesitate to separate them with a firm hand. Neither put
this thought into words, but it was there in their hearts, in the form of
a vague fear. They talked very little, but each was feeling how pleasant
the journey had been, and dreading what might be before.

They wanted to stay in this Utopia of the plains, forever journeying
together, and never reaching any troublesome futures where were laws and
opinions by which they must abide.

But the morning grew bright, and the road was not half long enough. Though
at the last they walked their horses, they reached the town before the
daily train had passed through. They went straight to the station, and
found that the train was an hour late; but a telegram had arrived for the
man. He took it nervously, his fingers trembling. He felt a premonition
that it contained something unpleasant.

The girl sat on her horse by the platform, watching him through the open
station door where he was standing as he tore open the envelope. She saw a