"There you are now far beyond my comprehension," Clifford interrupted, with returning good humor; and as Hugh Estill joined them he added: "I will now retire in favor of number one."
Emboldened by Grace's homily, young Warlow sought Miss Estill's side, and in her vivacious friendliness he soon found the happiness that had taken flight on the appearance of the major; but the returning bud of confidence, which her smiles had called forth, was nipped by a most untimely frost in the appearance of a new rival—John Downels, of Diamond Springs.
Mr. Downels was a debonair, graceful specimen of the gilded youth of New York, from whose make-up the last remaining trace of effeminacy had been eliminated by a stern course of ranch-life in the West. He appeared to be an old friend of Miss Estill, who presented him to Clifford; but after a moment's civility, young Warlow took his leave and retired, while the late comer devoted himself to the heiress.
While pretending to discuss music with Mrs. Warfield, Clifford watched the pair furtively. He began to realize that now he had just cause for uneasiness; for there was an air of culture and polished ease about the blonde-haired young ranchman which made him very attractive, and young Warlow became so absorbed and miserable that he only half realized what he was saying.
"Do you think we shall have time at the picnic to sing all the songs on the programme before dinner?" Mrs. Warfield inquired.
"Why, no; I believe it would be a better plan to dish it out by the quart to the individual tables," he replied, absently; then seeing a puzzled look sweep over her face, he hastened to add: "You know it would be more liable to melt if it was in such small quantities."
The situation flashed at once upon the keen-eyed lady, and although flirtation, jealousy, music, and ice-cream was a combination sufficient to upset the gravity of a sexton, yet she replied in a tone of perfect suavity while toying with her bracelet of jet and gold:
"A very good plan indeed, Mr. Warlow."
When evening came, and with its brooding shadows the company dispersed, our hero returned home with a heavy heart. As he pondered over each word and action of Miss Estill, he had to confess that there was nothing in her demeanor towards him but friendly courtesy at all times. The only way that he could interpret her remark on the terrace, regarding their "flirtation" and "practicing," was that she had seen his growing attachment for herself, and she had in that way shown him that it was only a flirtation, and that his case was hopeless. "Yes; she was too genuinely a lady to encourage his suit, then discard him at the last moment," he concluded, despondently.
A miserable day followed a sleepless night, and Clifford busied himself with the farm duties, trying vainly to forget the bewitching voice that was ever haunting him, and which, as he drove the reaper over the wild meadow, seemed to be singing above the clang and ring of the sickle the sweet refrain,—