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The man thought that if he moved away from the big camp and lived alone where there were no other people perhaps he might teach these women to become good; so he moved his lodge far off on the prairie and camped at the foot of a high butte. For this master of the Towers (so the story ran) Elspeth, in her younger days, had borne a love too deep for words, when she herself was soft and rosy-cheeked, with a heart as tender and romantic as her eyes were blue, and when her lips, were for all the world like "cherries ripe." "Lie down: you will hurt yourself again," she says, trying gently to induce him to return to his former recumbent position; but he resists her..

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It is an hour later. Afternoon draws towards evening, yet one scarcely feels the change. It is sultry, drowsy, warm, and full of a "slow luxurious calm." "Yet, in spite of all the fine feathers, no one ever crept into my heart but my own Mona," says the young man, putting his hand beneath her chin, which is soft and rounded as a baby's, and turning her face to his. He hates to see the faint chagrin that lingers on it for a moment; for his is one of those tender natures that cannot bear to see the thing it loves endure the smallest torment. "This spot always brings to my mind the thoughts of other people," says Mona, softly. "I am very fond of poetry: are you?" "No?" Then, "Not if you dislike it of course. But Nicholas made a point of my being nice to him. I did not know you would object to my dancing with him.".