The

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has ever kissed me, and you--"

      "And I sha'n't be the first," he added, shrugging his shoulders. "Well, I confess I hoped to be, and you are a greater temptation than you know, Miss Montana. And you ought to pardon me the attempt."

      Her face was flushed and shamed. "I could pardon a great deal in you, Max," she answered; "but don't speak of it again. Talk to me of other things."

      "Other things? Well, I haven't many other things in my mind just now. Still, I did see some one down town this morning whom you rather liked, and who asked after you. It was Mr. Harvey, the writer, whom we met first at Bonner's Ferry, up in the Kootenai land. Do you remember him?"

      "Certainly. We met him afterward at one of the art galleries, and I have seen him several times at Roden's studio. They are great friends. He looked surprised to find me there, but, after I spoke to him, he talked to me a great deal. You know, Max, I always imagine he heard that suspicion of me up at the camp. Do you think so?"

      "He never intimated it to me," answered Max; "though Haydon nearly went into spasms of fear lest he would put it all in some paper."

      "I remember. He would scarcely allow me breathing space for fear the stranger would get near enough to speak to me again. I remember all that journey, because when I reached the end of it, the past seemed like a troubled dream, for this life of fineness and beauty and leisure was all so different."

      "And yet you are not contented?"

      "Oh, don't talk of that--of me!" she begged. "I am tired of myself. I just remembered another one on the train that journey--the little variety actress who had her dresses made to look cute and babyish--the one with bleached hair, and they called her Goldie. She looked scared to death when he--Overton--stopped at the window to say good-by. I often wondered why."

      "Oh, you know Dan was a sort of sheriff, or law-and-order man, up there. He might have known her unfavorably, and she was afraid of being identified by him, or something of that sort. She belonged to the rougher element, no doubt."

      "Max, it makes me homesick to think of that country," she confessed. "Ever since the grass has commenced to be green, and the buds to swell, it seems to me all the woods are calling me. All the sluggish water I see here in the parks and the rivers makes me dream of the rush of the clear Kootenai, and long for a canoe and paddle. Contrive something to make me forget it, won't you? Make up a party to go somewhere--anywhere. I will be cavalier to your lovely little aunt, and leave you to Margaret."

      "I asked you before why you speak of Margaret and me in that tone?" he said. "Are you going to tell me? You have no reason but your own fancy."

      "Haven't I? Well, this isn't fancy, Max--that I would like to see my cousin--you see, I claim them for this once--happy in her own way, instead of unhappy in the life her ambitious family are trying to arrange for her. And I promise to trade some surplus dust for a wedding present just as soon as you conclude to spoil their plans, and make yourself and that little girl and your aunt all happy by a few easily spoken words."

      "But I have just told you I love you."

      "You will know better some day," she said, and turned away. "Now go and pacify your aunt, won't you? She seemed so troubled about the modeling--bless her dear heart! I didn't want to trouble her, but the work--some work--was a necessity to me. I was growing so homesick for the woods."

      After she was left alone, she drew a letter from her pocket, one she had got in the morning mail, and read over again the irregular lines sent by Mrs. Huzzard.

      "I got Lavina to write you the letter at Christmas, because I was so tickled with all the things you sent me that I couldn't write a straight line to save me; and you know the rheumatiz in my finger makes it hard work for me sometimes. But maybe hard work and me is about done with each other, 'Tana; though I'll tell you more of that next time.

      "I must tell you Mr. Harris has got better--can talk some and walk around; can't move his left arm any yet. But Mr. Dan sent for two fine doctors, and they tried to help him with electricity. And I was scared for fear lightning might strike camp after that; but it didn't. Lavina is here still, and likely to stay. She's a heap of company; and she and Captain Leek are better friends than they was.

      "There is a new man in camp now; he found a silver mine down near Bonner's Ferry, and sold it out well. He was a farmer back in Indiana, and has been on a visit to our camp twice. Mr. Dan says it's my cooking fetches him. Everything is different here now. Mr. Dan got sawed lumber, and put me up a nice little house; and up above the bluff he has laid out a place where he is going to build a stone house, just as if he intends to live and die here. He doesn't ever seem to think that he has enough made now to rest all his days. Sometimes I think he ain't well. Sometimes, 'Tana, I think it would cheer him up if you would just write him a few lines from time to time. He always says, 'Is she well?' when I get a letter from you; and about the time I'm looking for your letters he's mighty regular about getting the mail here.

      "That old Akkomi went south when winter set in, and we reckon he'll be back when the leaves get green. His whole village was drunk for days on the money you had Mr. Seldon give him, and he wore pink feathers from some millinery store the last time I saw him. But Mr. Dan is always patient with him whether he is drunk or sober.

      "I guess that's all the news. Lavina sends her respects. And I must tell you that on Christmas they got some whisky, and all the boys drank your health--and drank it so often Mr. Dan had to give them a talking to. They think a heap of you. Yours with affection,

      "LORENA JANE HUZZARD.

      "P. S.--William McCoy is the name of the stranger I spoke of. The boys call him Bill."

      CHAPTER XXVI.

      OVERTON'S WIFE.

      A few hours later, 'Tana sat in a box at the theater; for the party she had suggested had been arranged, and pretty Miss Margaret was radiant over the evening planned for her, and 'Tana began to enjoy her rle of matchmaker. She had even managed to tell Margaret, in a casual manner, that Miss Seldon's idea of a decided engagement between herself and Max had never a very solid foundation, and now had none at all. He was her good friend--that was all, and she was to leave for Italy in a month.

      And Margaret went up to her and kissed her, looking at her with puzzled, admiring eyes.

      "They tried at home to make me think very differently," she said. "But you are a queer girl, Miss Montana. You have told me this on purpose, and--"

      "And I want to hear over in Italy that you are going to make a boy I like very happy some of these days. Remember, Margaret, you are--or will be--a millionairess, while he has not more than a comfortable income; and boys--even when they are in love--can be proud. Will you think of that?"

      Margaret only blushed and turned away, but the answer was quite satisfying to 'Tana, and she felt freer because her determination had been put into words, and the last bond connecting her with the old life was to be broken. Ever since the snows had gone, some cord of her heart-string had been drawing all her thoughts to those Northern hills, and she felt the only safety was to put the ocean between them and her.

      The home Mr. Seldon had offered her with his sister was a very lovely one, but to it there came each week letters about the mines and the people there. Mr. Seldon had already gone out, and would be gone all summer. As he was an enthusiast over the beauties and the returns of the country, his letters were full of material that she heard discussed each day. Therefore, the only safety for herself lay in flight; and if she did not go across the ocean to the East, she would surely grow weaker and more homesick until she would have to turn coward entirely and cross the mountains to her West.

      Realizing it all, she sat in her dainty array of evening dress and watched with thoughts far away the mimic scene of love triumphant on the stage before her. When, on the painted canvas, a far-off snow-crowned mountain rose to their view, her heart seemed to creep to her throat and choke her, and when the orchestra breathed softly of the winds, music, and the twittering of birds, the tears rose to her eyes and a great longing in her heart for all the wild beauty of her Kootenai land.

      Then, just as the curtain went down on the second act, some one

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