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"Our personal affairs."

"Not yet. You must be patient. I am not a free woman yet."

"But you'll let me hope?"

"I cannot say. I am determined to obey the letter of the law."

"I could leap for joy, Daphne!"

"Better not try it; might injure your knitting-bones."

"Here," said Mrs. Benson, who had been purposely busy at the fire, "is a dish of savory stew. And here is some hardtack, soaked till it is light and soft. It is hot and nicely buttered. The coffee is guiltless of cream, but it is fresh and good."

"And black and aromatic and Frenchy," exclaimed Scotty. "Mrs. McAlpin, will you dine with me to-day?"

"No, Mr. Burns; my meal awaits me at the fire."

"What sort of game is this?" he asked, as he ate with relish.

"Captain Ranger called it a prairie bird."

"Birds in my country don't wear hair, but feathers," he said, holding to the light the hind-quarter of a prairie dog, and pointing to bits of hair afloat in the g^vy.

"Ask me no questions, for conscience' sake," cried Mrs. Benson, who was laughing heartily. "It may be a prairie dog, or it may be a prairie squirrel. But it is good for food, and much to be desired to make you well and wise."

"It is all right," laughed Mrs. McAlpin. "When Lewis and Clark were on the Oregon trail, nearly fifty years ago, away yonder to the north of us, they were glad to trade with the Indians for mangy dogs, sometimes, if they got any food at all."

When Scotty awoke the following morning, after a sleep that was as refreshing as it seemed brief, the sun was creeping over the wide expanse of the Platte, making it shine like a gigantic mirror. The women and girls, who had been up for an hour, were bringing in the stock.