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 outlined against the setting sun, and gazing from under his broad hat down the mountain slopes for a revengeful sheriff and a posse.

When the following Sunday the family motored in to church—it was the opening of the church season, so to speak; during the warm weather Henry played golfi—she prayed for his escape and his safety. It seemed strange and incongruous that she should be kneeling there, in that decorous opulent silence, praying for a cowboy who had shot a man. She was almost self-conscious when she sat back and looked around. But her mother was opening her prayer book at Morning Prayer and Henry, leaning back for easier access to his pocket, was feeling for the twenty dollar bill with which he always decorated the top of the plate. Henry had been a vestryman for many years.

That was the day before Tom's arrival; it was a Monday afternoon when she saw him.

She had been playing tennis. Now she sat on the terrace of the country club drinking tea. Around the wicker table were a half dozen girls and a man or two, all indolent from exercise and the sun. They talked desultory personalities, yawned, sipped their tea or highballs and drew on cigarettes, in the effortless ease of people who knew each other intimately.

"Where's Hugh?"

"Gone home. He was pretty well teed up last night."

"Anybody coming over tonight? You coming, Kay?"

"I don't know. I'm tired of dancing."

"Seems to me our Kay's kind of sore on the world lately." One of the men said this. "What's the matter, Kay? Not troubled in your little mind, are you?"

The group glanced at her, smiling.

"Maybe Herbert's been acting the cave-man again!" some one suggested. And with this picture of Herbert there came light-hearted delighted laughter.

"But I always say this," a girl drawled, "when Herbert does settle down, he will be all right. Don't you let them discourage you, Kay."

Kay was hardly listening. She was used to their humor,