“Come, Bess,” he said.

Wondering, the girl got to her feet; wondering still more, followed his lead down the path to the stable.  At the door the Indian whistled.  But there was no response, no shaggy grey answering shadow.  A lantern hung from a nail near at hand.  In silence the man lit it and again led the way within.  The mouse-coloured broncho and its darker mate were asleep, but at the interruption they awoke and looked about curiously.  Otherwise there was no move.  Look where one would within the building, there was no sign of another live thing.  Still in silence the Indian led the way outside, made the circuit of the stable, paused at the south end where a chain hung loose from a peg driven into the wall.  A moment he stood there, holding the light so the girl could see; then, impassive as before, he extinguished the blaze and returned the lantern to its place.

They were half way back to the house before the girl spoke; then, detainingly, she laid her hand upon his arm.

“You mean you’ve let him go already, How?” she asked.

“Yes.  I didn’t fasten him this evening.”

They walked on so.

“You wanted him to go?”

No answer.

“Tell me, How, did you want him to leave?”

“No, Bess.”

Again they advanced, until they reached the house door.

“Why did you let him go, then?” asked the girl tensely.

For the second time there was no answer.

“Tell me, How,” she repeated insistently.

“I heard you get up last night, Bess,” said a voice.  “I thought I—­understood.”

For long they stood there, the girl’s hand on the man’s arm, but neither stirring; then with a sound perilously near a sob, the hand dropped.

“I think I’ll go to bed now, How,” she said.

Deliberately, instinctively, the man’s arms folded across his chest.  That was all.

The girl mounted the single step, paused in the doorway.

“Aren’t you coming, too, How?” she queried.

“No, Bess.”

A sudden suspicion came to the girl, a sudden terror.

“You aren’t angry with me, are you?” she trembled.

“No, Bess,” repeated.

“But still you’re not coming?”

“No.”

Swift as a lightning flash suspicion became certainty.

“You mean you’re not going to come with me to-night?” She scarcely recognised her own voice.  “You’re never going to be with me again?”

“Never?” A long, long pause.  “God alone knows about that, Bess.”  A second halt.  “Not until things between us are different, at least.”

“How!” Blindly, weakly, the girl threw out her hand, grasped the casing of the door.  “Oh, How!  How!”

No answer, not the twitching of a muscle, nor the whisper of a breath; just that dread, motionless silence.  A moment the girl stood it, hoping against hope, praying for a miracle; then she could stand it no longer.  Gropingly clutching at every object within reach, she made her way into the dark interior; flung herself full dressed onto the bed, her face buried desperately among the covers.