"Oh, yes! That is what I want. One that brings Yale in somehow."

"All you Yale men seem to be stuck on that college. You're true blue."

Frank leaped to his feet with a cry of delight.

"I have it!" he exclaimed.

"What?" gasped Mr. Carson.

"The t.i.tle!"

"You have?"

"Yes; you gave it to me then!"

"I did?"

"Sure thing."

"What is it?"

"'True Blue.' That is a t.i.tle that fits the play. Yale's color is blue, you know. People may not understand just what the t.i.tle means, but still I believe there is something attractive about it, something that will draw, and the audience will understand it before the play is over. 'True Blue' is the name! I have been well paid for coming out here, Mr.

Carson! Besides entertaining me royally, you have given me a striking name for my play."

"Well, I'm sure I'm glad if I've done that," laughed Kent Carson.

"I must put that t.i.tle down on the ma.n.u.script," said Frank. "I feel an inspiration. I must go to work at once. I am in the mood now, and I can write."

Excusing himself, he hurried into the house. Soon a light gleamed from the window of the room in which he worked, which was on the ground floor. Looking in at that window, Hodge saw Frank had started a fire in the grate and lighted a lamp. He was seated at a table, writing away swiftly.

Kent Carson got up and stood beside Hodge looking into the room.

"Merriwell is a great worker," said the rancher.

"He's a steam engine," declared Bart. "I never saw a fellow who could do so much work and so many things. There is no telling how long he will drive away at that play to-night. Now that he has the t.i.tle, he may finish it to-night, and be ready to leave here in the morning."

"If that happens, I shall be sorry I gave the t.i.tle so soon," said the cattleman, sincerely. "I have taken a great liking to that young man."

Frank worked away a long time, utterly unconscious of the flight of the hours. At last he became aware that the fire in the open grate had made the room uncomfortably warm. He had replenished it several times, as there was something wonderfully cheerful in an open fire. He arose and flung wide the window.

The moon, a thin, shining scimitar, was low down in the west. Soon it would drop from view beyond the horizon. There was a haze on the plain.

Slowly out of that haze came two objects that seemed to be approaching.

"Cattle," said Merry, turning back from the window and sitting down at the table again.

He resumed work on the play. He did not hear the door open softly, he did not hear a light footstep behind him, he did not hear a rustling sound quite near, and it was not until a deep, tremulous sigh reached his ears that he became aware of another presence in the room.

Like a flash Frank whirled about and found himself face to face with----

The girl he had seen at the window!

In astonishment Frank gazed at the girl, who was dressed in some dark material, as if she were in mourning. He saw that she was quite as pretty as he had fancied at first, although her face was very pale and sad. The color of her dress and hair made her face seem paler than it really was.

Only a moment did Frank remain thus. Then he sprang up, bowing politely, and saying:

"I beg your pardon! I did not know there was a lady in the room."

She bowed in return.

"Do not rise," she said. "I saw you to-day from my window, and I could not sleep till I had seen you again. Somehow you seemed to remind me of Lawton. I thought so, then, but now it does not seem so much that way.

Still you made me think of him. I have been shut up there so long--so long! I have not talked to anybody, and I wanted to talk to somebody who could tell me something of the world--something of the places far away.

I am buried here, where n.o.body knows anything to talk about but cattle and horses."

Frank's heart was thrilled with sympathy.

"Do they keep you shut up in that room?" he asked.

"No; I stay there from choice. This is the first time I have been downstairs for weeks. I have refused to leave the room; I refused to see my father. I can't bear to have him look at me with such pity and anger."

"Your father--he is Mr. Carson?"

"Yes."

"It is strange he has never spoken to me of you. I was not aware he had a daughter, although he spoke proudly of his son."

In an instant Frank regretted his words. A look of anguish swept over the face of the girl, and she fell back a step, one thin hand fluttering up to her bosom.

"No!" she cried, and her voice was like the sob of the wind beneath the leaves of a deserted house; "he never speaks of me! He says I am dead--dead to the world. He is proud of his son, Berlin, my brother; but he is ashamed of his daughter, Blanche."

Frank began to suspect and understand the truth. This girl had met with some great sorrow, a sorrow that had wrecked her life. Instantly Merry's heart was overflowing with sympathy, but his situation was most embarra.s.sing, and he knew not what to say. The girl seemed to understand this.

"Don't think me crazy because I have come here to you in this way," she entreated. "Don't think me bold! Oh, if you could know how I have longed for somebody with whom I could talk! I saw you were a gentleman. I knew my father would not introduce me to you, but I resolved to see you, hoping you would talk to me--hoping you would tell me of the things going on in the world."

"I shall be glad to do so," said Merry, gently. "But don't you have any papers, any letters, anything to tell you the things you wish to know?"

"Nothing--nothing! I am dead to the world. You were writing. Have I interrupted you?"

"No; I am through working on my play to-night."

"Your play?" she cried, eagerly. "What are you doing with a play?

Perhaps--perhaps----"

She stopped speaking, seeming to make an effort to hold her eagerness in check.

"I am writing a play," Frank explained. "That is, I am rewriting it now.

I wrote it some time ago and put it on the road, but it was a failure. I am going out again soon with a new company."

Her eagerness seemed to increase.