Forlorn River. Zane Grey

when he finds out,” declared Hettie, in awe.

      “As a last resort, we’ll do it,” returned Ina. “But let us wait. Something may happen. We might get word to Ben. He might hear of my return and want to see me.”

      “He’d want to, Ina, but he’d never come, even if you sent him word,” said Hettie, sadly.

      “Poor Ben! What a pass he must have come to! . . . Well, here’s the end of your lane and I think that’s Marvie coming way down the road. I’ll see you soon again, Hettie. Meanwhile remember we are archplotters.”

      “Oh, Ina Blaine, I could hug you!” cried Hettie, in passionate gratefulness.

      “Well, do it!”

      But Hettie turned and fled down the lane.

      * * * *

      Saturday came and passed. Ina spent it with Marvie out in the open—a long beautiful spring day, full of laughter and excitement, yet with moments for appreciation of the soft gray sage slopes above the brook where Marvie loved to fish, and lonely intervals when she dreamed.

      Through some machination of Kate’s, that almost roused Ina’s temper, Dall was not permitted to accompany them. So Ina, not to disappoint Marvie, had gone alone with him.

      It was dark when they drove into the lane of Tule Lake Ranch. Ina, as she shuffled wet and disheveled into the bright kitchen, did not need sister Kate’s wry look to appreciate her appearance. She did not care. She was tired, and strangely happy. Her father’s displeasure with Marvie, her mother’s divided state of mind, Kate’s manifest disapproval, had not the least effect upon her. What a day to bring back the past! She hardly remembered even the thrilling incidents, let alone the multitudinous commonplace ones.

      Marvie had proved to be such a brother as any sister must love. He made Ina a chum. How little did her dignity and schooling impress him! Ina had shared everything. She had driven, walked, climbed, and waded; she had fallen off a slippery bank into the rushes; she had rowed a boat while Marvie had fished with intense hopefulness; she had helped him fight a fish that got away.

      Ina, spurred despite herself by Kate’s peremptory call from below, made haste with her bath and change of clothes. Then she hurried down to have late supper alone with Marvie. Some one evidently had crushed the boy’s exuberant reminiscences of the day. Ina felt that nothing could crush her remembrance of it nor take from her the nameless joy. She was cheerfully oblivious of Kate, and soon won her mother to keen interest in the adventures of the day.

      “Wal,” said her father, “reckon it was fun for you. But you’re growed up now. Marvie ought to have knowed better than to take you to Forlorn River.”

      “But we only went to the mouth of the river above Hammell,” protested the boy. “Not over the hills.”

      “Why not over the hills?” queried Ina, quickly. “I want to ride everywhere. Next Saturday we’ll go to the lake.”

      Mr. Blaine shot a significant glance at his wife, as if to remind her of some prediction he had made, and he got up with a little cough that Ina well remembered.

      “Marvie, you’d make a wild tomboy out of your sister,” he said, severely. “You shan’t have no horse an’ buggy next Saturday.”

      “But Paw, Ina can’t walk all over,” protested Marvie, getting red in the face. “I’d just as lief walk.”

      “Ina will have some one to drive her around,” replied Mr. Blaine.

      “Ahuh! That Sewell McAdam fellow, for one, I s’pose,” ejaculated Marvie, in imminent disgust.

      “Sewell McAdam? Who is he?” inquired Ina, glancing from Marvie to her father.

      “Reckon the boy guessed right that time,” laughed Mr. Blaine. “I forgot to tell you about Sewell. He’s a fine young chap from Klamath. Father’s a friend of mine. Owns the big three C stores. You’ll meet Sewell. I asked him for Sunday dinner.”

      “I shall be pleased, of course,” said Ina, dubiously, with her eyes on Marvie. The boy did not show that he would share her pleasure. After supper, in the sitting room, when they were alone except for Dall, Ina put a query to him anent this young man who was coming Sunday.

      “He’s a city fellar, Ina,” replied Marvie. “Kind of a willie-boy who puts on style.”

      “Don’t you like him, Marvie?”

      “Haven’t any reason not to, but you bet I wouldn’t take him fishin’.”

      “That’s very conclusive,” said Ina, thoughtfully. “I don’t remember dad inviting young men to dinner Sundays.”

      “Ina, I heard somethin’—if you won’t tell,” whispered Marvie, swiftly glancing round. “Dall knows, for she was with me.”

      “Cross my heart,” replied Ina, solemnly.

      “We heard paw an’ Mr. McAdam talkin’ out by the barn. They had some kind of a big deal on. This McAdam man is the father of Sewell, who’s comin’ Sunday. He’s awful rich. Owns stores. He an’ paw are goin’ into somethin’, an’ you figgered in it.”

      “Marvie! What are you saying?” exclaimed Ina in amaze.

      “Ask Dall,” returned the boy.

      “Ina, I heard pa say if Sewell got sweet on you pretty quick it’d work out fine,” answered Dall, her eyes bright and round with importance.

      “Did you tell anyone?” asked Ina.

      “I told mother, an’ Kate heard. Mother seemed sort of fussed, like she is so much. Kate chased us out of the kitchen. She was mad as thunder. Kate’s city beau is a friend of this Sewell McAdam.”

      “Don’t tell anyone else, please,” said Ina, earnestly.

      “I promise,” rejoined the boy, with loving gaze upon her. “But, Ina, if you let this city fellar come courtin’ you, I—I’ll never take you fishin’ again.”

      He ended stoutly, though manifestly fearful that he had overstepped his brotherly limit. Ina’s heart warmed to him, and she acted upon the feeling by giving him a kiss.

      “Don’t worry, Marvie. We’ll go fishing whenever you’ll take me.”

      They were interrupted then, and Ina had no opportunity to think over this odd gossip until she went to her room. At first the idea seemed ridiculous and she endeavored to dismiss it. But other considerations added their peculiar significance; and it was not long before she confessed the exasperating complexity of the situation. Only for a moment did it dismay her. Ina was dauntless. But to oppose the wills and desires of her people hurt her. That seemed inevitable. She did not determine upon any course of action. It was necessary to await developments. Nevertheless, she looked forward with something of curiosity and humor to the meeting with Mr. Sewell McAdam.

      Sunday morning acquainted Ina with the fact that for the Sabbath, at least, much of the old home life of the Blaines had been retained.

      There was indeed more elaborate dressing, especially on the part of Kate, than Ina could remember. Her sister showed more than ever that she was a country girl unduly influenced by city associations and ambitions. The boys, it appeared, except Marvie, had their own horses and buggies to drive to church. Mr. Blaine drove the rest of the family in a two-seated vehicle that Ina imagined she recognized. She and Dall rode on the front seat with their father.

      The village church, of gray and weather-beaten boards, the young men loitering round the entrance, self-conscious in their shiny clothes, the girls in bright dresses and bonnets, and the horses hitched in the shade—these looked precisely to Ina the same as before she had left home.

      As they entered, her father leading up the aisle, very pompous, her mother trying to live up to her part, and Kate proud as a peacock, Ina became aware that they, and particularly herself, were the cynosure of many eyes. This fact did not embarrass her, but