I
     felt like doing so; but in those happy days I was always
     sure that I should be taken first. It was he who was to go
     first, though, and now it is for the sake of his children
     that I am going to do what I never thought I could. I am
     going to marry again. As they grow older and need more, I
     find it impossible for me to support them, though I do not
     mind how hard I work, and would wear my fingers to the bone
     rather than take any other man's name after being John's
     wife. But I cannot care for them as they should be cared
     for. Johnny is now six, and ought to go to school, but I
     cannot dress him decently enough to send him. Mary has
     outgrown all her clothes, and I cannot get her more. Her
     feet are too tender to go bare, and I cannot buy her shoes.
     I get less and less sewing since the new dressmaker came to
     the village, and soon shall have none. We live, oh so
     plainly! For myself I should not care, but the children are
     growing and need better food. They are John's children, and
     for their sake I have brought myself to do what I never
     could have done but for them. I have promised to marry Mr.
     Whitcomb. I have not deceived him as to why alone I marry
     him. He has promised to care for the children as his own,
     and to send Johnny to college, for I know his father would
     have wanted him to go. It will be a very quiet wedding, of
     course. Mr. Whitcomb has had some cards printed to send to a
     few friends, and I inclose one to you. I cannot say that I
     wish you could be present, for it will be anything but a
     joyful day to me. But when I meet John in heaven, he will
     hold me to account for the children he left me, and this is
     the only way by which I can provide for them. So long as it
     is well with them, I ought not to care for myself.

The card announced that the wedding would take place at the home of the bride, at six o'clock on the afternoon of the 27th of June.

It was June 27 that day, and it was nearly five o'clock. "The Lord help you!" ejaculated Pinney, as he saw, by the ashen hue which overspread Lansing's face, that the full realization of his situation had come home to him. "We meant to keep it from you till to-morrow. It might be a little easier not to know it till it was over than now, when it is going on, and you not able to lift a finger to stop it."

"Oh, John," cried Mrs. Pinney once more; "remember, she does n't know!" and, sobbing hysterically, she fled from the room, unable to endure the sight of Lansing's face.

He had fallen into a chair, and was motionless, save for the slow and labored breathing which shook his body. As he sat there in Pinney's ranch this pleasant afternoon, the wife whom he worshiped never so passionately as now, at their home one thousand miles away, was holding another man by the hand, and promising to be his wife.

It was five minutes to five by the clock on the wall before him. It therefore wanted but five minutes of six, the hour of the wedding, at home, the difference in time being just an hour. In the years of his exile, by way of enhancing the vividness of his dreams of home, he had calculated exactly the difference in time from various points in Colorado, so that he could say to himself, "Now Mary is putting the babies to bed;" "Now it is her own bedtime;" "Now she is waking up;" or "Now the church-bells are ringing, and she is walking to church." He was accustomed to carry these two standards of time always in his head, reading one by the other, and it was this habit, bred of doting fondness, which now would compel him to follow, as if he were a spectator, minute