happened to me. And here I am, and--But oh, I do care what happens to
me!" she added, her voice breaking. "I'm--I'm frightened of him--I'm
frightened, in spite of myself. . . . He doesn't treat me right," she
added. "And I'm terribly frightened."

She raised her eyes to Orlando's face in the growing dusk--there is no
twilight in that prairie land--and there was that in it which made her
feel that she must not give way any further. In Orlando's veins was
Southern sap, mixed with Northern blood; in Orlando's eyes was a sudden
look belonging to that which defies the law.

"Don't--don't look like that," she exclaimed. "Oh, Orlando!"

Once more he heard her speak his name, and it was like salve to a wound.
He put a hand upon himself. "I'll go to Tralee," he said, "if you don't
mind waiting here alone."

"I can't. I will not wait alone. If you go, then I'll go too
somehow.... It's twelve miles. You couldn't get there till midnight,
and you couldn't get back here with a wagon for another couple of hours
from that. It would be daylight then. I can't stay here alone. I'm
frightened, and I'm cold."

"Wait a minute," said Orlando.

He ran back to the dead horse, unloosed the saddle from its back,
detached from it a rain-coat strapped to the pommel, and brought it to
her.

"This will keep you warm," he said. "It isn't cold to-night. You only