for his dark face, strong in its immobility, was in silhouette against
the flush of twilight which illumined hers, so transparent in its
sensitiveness.

"Is it not a good thing to believe, on any terms?" she tried to answer
lightly.

"For some persons, perhaps. But my hopes, if I had any, would lie in the
direction of disbelief."

"Disbelief?" she repeated confusedly. His keen eyes beat hers down.

"In woman's memory, constancy,--her constancy in youth, say? I am not
talking of seasoned timber. I don't deserve to be happy, you see, and I
look for no more than my deserts."

If he were mocking her now, only to test her! And if she should answer
with a humble, blissful disclaimer? But she answered nothing, disclaimed
nothing; suffered his suspicion,--his contempt, perhaps, for she felt that
he read her through and through.

A widow is well, and a maid is well; but a maiden widow who trembles and
looks down--in God's creation, what is she?

* * * * *

On the north side of the Snake, after climbing out of the canon at Decker's
Ferry, the cross-roads branch as per sign-post: "Thirty miles to Shoshone
Falls, one mile to Decker's Ferry. Good road." This last assertion must
be true, as we have it on no less authority than that of Decker himself.