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But, though "lost to sight," to memory he is most unpleasantly "dear." Standing alone in the middle of the deserted field, Mona pulls to pieces, in a jerky, fretful fashion, a blade of grass she has been idly holding during the late warm discussion. She is honestly very much frightened at what she has done, but obstinately declines to acknowledge it even to her own heart. In a foolish but natural manner she tries to deceive herself into the belief that what has happened has been much to her own advantage, and it will be a strict wisdom to rejoice over it. "Come in for a little while and rest yourself," says Mona, hospitably, "while I get the brandy and send it up to poor Kitty." CHAPTER I..

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It was long, long ago, very far back, that this happened. In those days the people used to kill the buffalo by driving them over a steep place near the river, down which they fell into a great pen built at the foot of the cliff, where the buffalo that had not been killed by the fall were shot with arrows by the men. Then the people went into the pen and skinned the buffalo and cut them up and carried the meat away to their camp. This pen they called piskun. "I am so glad you are poor," says Mona. "If you were rich or even well off, I should never consent,—never!" Soon the man came running up, and he said to his wife, "Who is driving out my animals?" The woman replied, "The dog and the root digger are in there now." "'Him'?—whom?"—demands her husband, with pardonable vivacity..