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 time. Although she was a staked claim, Miss Alice and the new entry seemed to strike a mutual kind of a clip. They had calls and coincidences of going to the post office and such things as sometimes make a girl send back the engagement ring and other presents—‘a rift within the loot,’ the poetry man calls it.

‘‘One day folks seen Redruth and Miss Alice standing talking at the gate. Then he lifts his hat and walks away, and that was the last anybody in that town seen of him, as far as this man knew.”

“What about the young lady?” asked the young man who had an Agency.

“Never heard,” answered Bildad. “Right there is where my lode of information turns to an old spavined crowbait, and folds it wings, for I’ve pumped it dry.”

“A very sad” began Judge Menefee, but his remark was curtailed by a higher authority.

“What a charming story!” said the lady passenger, in flute-like tones.

A little silence followed, except for the wind and the crackling of the fire.

The men were seated upon the floor, having slightly mitigated its inhospitable surface with wraps and stray pieces of boards. The man who was placing Little Goliath windmills arose and walked about to ease his cramped muscles.

Suddenly a triumphant shout came from him. He