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“There’s dried peach turnovers in that basket an’ some my hen chicken’s best hard-boiled eggs in Mr. Hale’s suit case!” almost screamed Mrs. Benton as the whole party moved forward toward the train. “There’s a jar of picked-off roast quail and—Good-by, Jessie Trent! Good-by! Don’t take no sass from nobody and do, I beg of you, do keep—your stockin’s—mended; Oh! my stars an’ garters! Oh! my! my suz!” wailed the poor woman, as the girl she so dearly loved was swept away from her without even one parting hug.

But Mrs. Trent, to whom this farewell meant more than to any of them, had now no word to say. One silent, prolonged clasp of her daughter’s little figure, one light kiss on the pretty lips, and—Jessica was gone!

The dying rumble of the overland seemed a knell of all her happiness and for a moment, as she stood with closed eyes trying to collect herself, she had a reckless impulse to board the next outgoing train and follow on her darling’s “trail.” Then somebody touched her arm and Ninian Sharp was saying in tones that tried to be cheerful and failed: