Meantime in their own private car the bride and groom were whirled on

their way to the west, but they saw little of the scenery, being engaged

in the all-absorbing story of each other's lives since they had parted.

And one bright morning, they stepped down from the train at Malta and

gazed about them.

The sun was shining clear and wonderful, and the little brown station

stood drearily against the brightness of the day like a picture that has

long hung on the wall of one's memory and is suddenly brought out and the

dust wiped away.

They purchased a couple of horses, and with camp accoutrements following

began their real wedding trip, over the road they had come together when

they first met. Elizabeth had to show her husband where she had hidden

while the men went by, and he drew her close in his arms and thanked God

that she had escaped so miraculously.

It seemed so wonderful to be in the same places again, for nothing out

here in the wilderness seemed much to have changed, and yet they two were

so changed that the people they met did not seem to recognize them as ever

having been that way before.

They dined sumptuously in the same coulee, and recalled little things they

had said and done, and Elizabeth now worldly wise, laughed at her own

former ignorance as her husband reminded her of some questions she had

asked him on that memorable journey. And ever through the beautiful

journey he was telling her how wonderful she seemed to him, both then and

now.

Not however, till they reached the old ranchhouse, where the woman had

tried to persuade her to stay, did they stop for long.

Elizabeth had a tender feeling in her heart for that motherly woman who

had sought to protect her, and felt a longing to let her know how safely

she had been kept through the long journey and how good the Lord had been

to her through the years. Also they both desired to reward these kind

people for their hospitality in the time of need. So, in the early evening

they rode up just as they did before to the little old log house. But no

friendly door flung open wide as they came near, and at first they thought

the cabin deserted, till a candle flare suddenly shone forth in the

bedroom, and then Benedict dismounted and knocked.

After some waiting the old man came to the door holding a candle high

above his head. His face was haggard and worn, and the whole place looked

dishevelled. His eyes had a weary look as he peered into the night and it

was evident that he had no thought of ever having seen them before: "I can't do much fer ya, strangers," he said, his voice sounding tired and

discouraged. "If it's a woman ye have with ye, ye better ride on to the

next ranch. My woman is sick. Very sick. There's nobody here with her but

me, and I have all I can tend to. The house ain't kept very tidy. It's six

weeks since she took to bed."




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