Friendship, sweet and loyal, marked every word that passed between them, but there was a dear world in each epistle--for her, at least, a world of comfort and hope.

She was praying, hungering, longing for June to come--sweet June and its tender touch--June with its bitter-sweet and sun clouds.

Now she was forgetting the wish which had been expressed to Anderson Crow on the drive home from Boggs City.

In its place grew the fierce hope that the once despised detective might clear away the mystery and give her the right to stand among others without shame and despair.
"Hear from Wick purty reg'lar, don't you, Rosalie ?" asked Anderson wickedly, one night while Blootch was there.

The suitor moved uneasily, and Rosalie shot a reproachful glance at Anderson, a glance full of mischief as well.
"He writes occasionally, daddy." "I didn't know you corresponded reg'larly," said Blootch.
"I did not say regularly, Blucher." "He writes sweet things to beat the band, I bet," said Blootch with a disdain he did not feel.
"What a good guesser you are!" she cried tormentingly.
"Well, I guess I'll be goin'," exploded Blootch wrathfully; "it's gittin' late." "He won't sleep much to-night," said Anderson, with a twinkle in his eye, as the gate slammed viciously behind the caller.