“Oligarchy,” murmured the Colonel courteously.

—­“oligarchy,” repeated the girl quickly, “my breath was just took away.  I said to maw, ‘Ain’t he too sweet for anything!’ I did, honest Injin!  And when you rolled it all off at the end—­never missing a word (you didn’t need to mark ’em in a lesson-book, but had ’em all ready on your tongue)—­and walked out—­Well!  I didn’t know you nor the Ditch Company from Adam, but I could have just run over and kissed you there before the whole court!”

She laughed, with her face glowing, although her strange eyes were cast down.  Alack! the Colonel’s face was equally flushed, and his own beady eyes were on his desk.  To any other woman he would have voiced the banal gallantry that he should now, himself, look forward to that reward, but the words never reached his lips.  He laughed, coughed slightly, and when he looked up again she had fallen into the same attitude as on her first visit, with her parasol point on the floor.

“I must ask you to—­er—­direct your memory to—­er—­another point:  the breaking off of the—­er—­er—­er—­engagement.  Did he—­er—­give any reason for it?  Or show any cause?”

“No; he never said anything,” returned the girl.

“Not in his usual way?—­er—­no reproaches out of the hymn-book?—­or the sacred writings?”

“No; he just quit.”

“Er—­ceased his attentions,” said the Colonel gravely.  “And naturally you—­er—­were not conscious of any cause for his doing so.”

The girl raised her wonderful eyes so suddenly and so penetratingly without replying in any other way that the Colonel could only hurriedly say:  “I see!  None, of course!”

At which she rose, the Colonel rising also.  “We—­shall begin proceedings at once.  I must, however, caution you to answer no questions, nor say anything about this case to any one until you are in court.”

She answered his request with another intelligent look and a nod.  He accompanied her to the door.  As he took her proffered hand, he raised the lisle-thread fingers to his lips with old-fashioned gallantry.  As if that act had condoned for his first omissions and awkwardness, he became his old-fashioned self again, buttoned his coat, pulled out his shirt frill, and strutted back to his desk.

A day or two later it was known throughout the town that Zaidee Hooker had sued Adoniram Hotchkiss for breach of promise, and that the damages were laid at five thousand dollars.  As in those bucolic days the Western press was under the secure censorship of a revolver, a cautious tone of criticism prevailed, and any gossip was confined to personal expression, and even then at the risk of the gossiper.  Nevertheless, the situation provoked the intensest curiosity.  The Colonel was approached—­until his statement that he should consider any attempt to overcome his professional secrecy a personal reflection withheld further advances.  The community were left to