cowardy-cat.

Her mind went back to that day of the street fight. She
smiled. At that moment Clarence Heyl, who had been screwing
about most shockingly, as though searching for some one,
turned and met her smile, intended for no one, with a
startlingly radiant one of his own, intended most plainly
for her. He half started forward in his pew, and then
remembered, and sat back again, but with an effect of
impermanence that was ludicrous. It had been years since he
had left Winnebago. At the time of his mother's death they
had tried to reach him, and had been unable to get in touch
with him for weeks. He had been off on some mountain
expedition, hundreds of miles from railroad or telegraph.
Fanny remembered having read about him in the Winnebago
Courier. He seemed to be climbing mountains a great
deal--rather difficult mountains, evidently, from the fuss
they made over it. A queer enough occupation for a cowardy-
cat. There had been a book, too. About the Rockies.
She had not read it. She rather disliked these nature
books, as do most nature lovers. She told herself that when
she came upon a flaming golden maple in October she was
content to know it was a maple, and to warm her soul at its
blaze.

There had been something in the Chicago Herald, though--
oh, yes; it had spoken of him as the brilliant young
naturalist, Clarence Heyl. He was to have gone on an
expedition with Roosevelt. A sprained ankle, or some such
thing, had prevented. Fanny smiled again, to herself. His