We had the huge vehicle to ourselves.  A comfortable bed had been rigged up for me by placing boards across from seat to seat, and furnishing it with blankets and pillows.  By some squeezing there was still room enough inside for my three companions; but Steele expressed an intention of riding mostly outside, and Miss Sampson’s expression betrayed her.  I was to be alone with Sally.  The prospect thrilled while it saddened me.  How different this ride from that first one, with all its promise of adventure and charm!

“It’s over!” said Steele thickly.  “It’s done!  I’m glad, for their sakes—­glad for ours.  We’re out of town.”

I had been quick to miss the shouts and cheers.  And I had been just as quick to see, or to imagine, a subtle change in Sally Langdon’s face.  We had not traveled a mile before the tension relaxed about her lips, the downcast eyelids lifted, and I saw, beyond any peradventure of doubt, a lighter spirit.  Then I relaxed myself, for I had keyed up every nerve to make myself strong for this undertaking.  I lay back with closed eyes, weary, aching, in more pain than I wanted them to discover.  And I thought and thought.

Miss Sampson had said to me:  “Russ, it’ll all come right.  I can tell you now what you never guessed.  For years Sally had been fond of our cousin, George Wright.  She hadn’t seen him since she was a child.  But she remembered.  She had an only brother who was the image of George.  Sally devotedly loved Arthur.  He was killed in the Rebellion.  She never got over it.  That left her without any family.  George and I were her nearest kin.

“How she looked forward to meeting George out here!  But he disappointed her right at the start.  She hates a drinking man.  I think she came to hate George, too.  But he always reminded her of Arthur, and she could never get over that.  So, naturally, when you killed George she was terribly shocked.  There were nights when she was haunted, when I had to stay with her.  Vaughn and I have studied her, talked about her, and we think she’s gradually recovering.  She loved you, too; and Sally doesn’t change.  Once with her is for always.  So let me say to you what you said to me—­do not brood.  All will yet be well, thank God!”

Those had been words to remember, to make me patient, to lessen my insistent fear.  Yet, what did I know of women?  Had not Diane Sampson and Sally Langdon amazed and nonplused me many a time, at the very moment when I had calculated to a nicety my conviction of their action, their feeling?  It was possible that I had killed Sally’s love for me, though I could not believe so; but it was very possible that, still loving me, she might never break down the barrier between us.  The beginning of that journey distressed me physically; yet, gradually, as I grew accustomed to the roll of the stage and to occasional jars, I found myself easier in body.  Fortunately there had been rain, which settled the dust; and a favorable breeze made riding pleasant, where ordinarily it would have been hot and disagreeable.