He had proved a staunch friend, though he had been hardly tried.  For several years he had been Sylvia’s devoted servant, and an admirer of the more accomplished Marston.  When the girl chose the latter it was a cruel blow to George, for he had never regarded his comrade as a possible rival; but after a few weeks of passionate bitterness, he had quietly acquiesced.  He had endeavored to blame neither; though there were some who did not hold Sylvia guiltless.  George was, as she well knew, her faithful servant still; and this was largely why she meant to tell him her tragic story.

“Well,” she said, “when I first went out to the prairie, I was almost appalled.  Everything was so crude and barbarous—­but you know the country.”

George merely nodded.  He had spent a few years in a wheat-growing settlement, inhabited by well-bred young Englishmen.  The colony, however, was not conducted on economic lines; and when it came to grief, George, having come into some property on the death of a relative, returned to England.

“Still,” continued Sylvia, “I tried to be content, and blamed myself when I found it difficult.  There was always so much to do—­cooking, washing, baking—­one could seldom get any help.  I often felt worn out and longed to lie down and sleep.”

“I can understand that,” said George, with grave sympathy.  “It’s a very hard country for a woman.”

He was troubled by the thought of what she must have borne for it was difficult to imagine Sylvia engaged in laborious domestic toil.  It had never occurred to him that her delicate appearance was deceptive.

“Dick,” she went on, “was out at work all day; there was nobody to talk to—­our nearest neighbor lived some miles off.  I think now that Dick was hardly strong enough for his task.  He got restless and moody after he lost his first crop by frost.  During that long, cruel winter we were both unhappy:  I never think without a shudder of the bitter nights we spent sitting beside the stove, silent and anxious about the future.  But we persevered; the next harvest was good, and we were brighter when winter set in.  I shall always be glad of that in view of what came after.”  She paused, and added in a lower voice: 

“You heard, of course?”

“Very little; I was away.  It was a heavy blow.”

“I couldn’t write much,” explained Sylvia.  “Even now, I can hardly talk of it—­but you were a dear friend of Dick’s.  We had to burn wood; the nearest bluff where it could be cut was several miles away; and Dick didn’t keep a hired man through the winter.  It was often very cold, and I got frightened when he drove off if there was any wind.  It was trying to wait in the quiet house, wondering if he could stand the exposure.  Then one day something kept him so that he couldn’t start for the bluff until noon; and near dusk the wind got up and the snow began to fall.  It got thicker, and I could not sit still.  I went out now and then and called, and was driven back, almost frozen, by the storm.  I could scarcely see the lights a few yards away; the house shook.  The memory of that awful night will haunt me all my life!”