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212 The girl would not hear more.

"Mr. Lord," she replied, with trepidation, "I know all about the wretched affair; please say no more."

Hurrying away, she left the little man scraping absently at his sorry steed's sides.

"There is some mystery here. I wonder where Travers comes in? "he muttered to himself as he turned toward his "homestead"—as he called his primitive habitation. "Confound it, if Travers were not in love with the girl," he said to himself, "I should fall head over ears myself. She looks 'so sweet,' as the girls say. But, hang it all, it's enough to drive a horse about, without seeking to chevy a wife. No, I'm game with cattle, and am getting on, but I'll not just yet undertake any further 'breakings in.'"

Gwyneth moved on, sad and desperate. She was absolutely alone in the world. Malduke had been tormenting her again, and hinting at the place being his, her father's, and hers, shortly. Some plot was brewing. Travers was not himself. A love-sick man has a short temper. The men were finding that out. O'Lochlan, with best intentions, was not succeeding. The men were unsettled since their day-star had disappeared.

Gwyneth seriously contemplated flight. In the city she could forget her troubles, and not ever be meeting the man she loved, who loved her not, and the man she hated, who loved her still.

She proceeded to the gooseberry field, where, with other maidens, her task was to pick the ripening fruit. Doggedly she settled herself to the "sad, mechanic exercise, like dull narcotics, numbing pain." Eva, passing by, happened to see her. In her impulsive, gleeful way, the child of the forest hurried forward, exclaiming—