tJERTRAND 
 
 J40 Pacific Ave- 
 LONG BEACH, 
 CALIFORNIA
 
 ON CLOUD MOUNTAIN 
 
 IRovel 
 
 HY 
 
 FREDERICK THICKSTUN CLARK 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 'A MEXICAN GIRL" "IN THE VALLEY OF HAVILAH" ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 
 1894
 
 Copyright, 1894, by HARPKR & BKOTIIERS. 
 All rights reserved.
 
 ON CLOUD MOUNTAIN 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE brakeman appeared long enough to emit that 
 series of consonantal explosives which travellers have 
 learned to regard as the name of the next station. 
 Then a whirl of dusty wind bore him out of sight on 
 the rear platform of the forenoon train. The name, as 
 the passengers understood it, was as impossible as a 
 Sanskrit sentence without a knowledge of inferential 
 vowels ; and those who had been brought up on a sim- 
 pler system of phonetics craned their necks for assist- 
 ance in the sign-board on the depot : 
 
 'DONHALACITY' 
 
 People who had never before heard of the place 
 classified it at once as one of those innumerable points 
 in Colorado where civilization is trying to get a foot- 
 hold. A few philosophers in the sleeping-car went so 
 far as to wonder whether civilization were not getting 
 the worst of it. In the day -coach, among those un- 
 fortunates who recognized the town as a terminus, there 
 
 2061716
 
 was a pushing of bundles into readiness for removal, a 
 readjustment of limp figures, a peering about of anx- 
 ious eyes. The brakes ground stridently, the couplings 
 clanked, there was a final exhalent wail from the air 
 fixtures, then a halt. 
 
 The passengers descended one by one. A policeman 
 loomed sublimely on the depot platform, his face rigid 
 in the expression of justice encouraging the peaceable 
 and quieting the disaffected. 
 
 First came a modish sportsman, thin and tall as a 
 totem -pole as grotesque, too, in these surroundings 
 but absorbing experiences which, on his return to 
 the East, would stamp him as a "devil of a fellow." 
 He was followed by a hulking ranchman, who slouched 
 away as if wading in high rubber boots. There was a 
 commercial traveller, of course, with a sample - case, an 
 oleaginous smile, and a look of salaried prosperity. 
 Close on his heels pushed and crowded a troop of 
 giggling waitresses, brought up from Denver by the 
 proprietor of the Donhala City Palace Hotel, and al- 
 ready eying the loafers with tentative friendliness. Then 
 came half a dozen cowboys one of whom was drunk, and 
 had been blood-thirsty earlier in the journey. A soaked 
 apathy had finally settled down upon him, and he was 
 borne unresistingly away by his companions, only mut- 
 tering maudlin complaints at their keeping him from 
 " laying down." 
 
 The policeman watched, ready to interfere if the good 
 of the public demanded it. Your frontier policeman's 
 existence is positive he makes himself felt in the cause 
 of order, even to superfluity. He loves to be pointed 
 out as the brave fellow who " raided Bowie's place," or
 
 " rain " that mysterious identity, The Red Terror, out of 
 town. But more than all, it is his pride to tower above 
 a crowd of common mortals and direct them by the si- 
 lence of decorated authority. The desire to interfere is 
 restless, assertive ; the disposition to pose is steady and 
 supporting. The two traits are to his soul what his 
 physiology and anatomy are to his body. 
 
 The natives who had assembled to see the train come 
 in bore the stamp of experiment, of doubtful conclusions. 
 Every man of them was still in the making ; he might 
 turn out a cattle - thief or a millionaire. One thing was 
 certain, however none of them had ever come in con- 
 tact with the clean side of life. Moral filth was as un- 
 mistakable all over them as physical dirt on a wet dog 
 after rolling in the street. Such aspirations as their 
 faces expressed were of the crude, material sort which 
 one cannot run up against without a shock. Their sur 
 roundings had taught them a new formula of faith the 
 credo of dirt and physical health : " I believe that I 
 came from the dirt, I believe that I am dirt, I believe 
 that it all ends in six feet of dirt." This world hardly 
 fits such people for heaven, but it makes use of them as 
 pioneers to smooth the way for a generation who will 
 have a better chance. 
 
 A series of howls went up at sight of the dude : 
 " Throw a timber at it, V see if it's alive !" 
 " Lend us the toe o' yer shoe fer a toothpick !" 
 " Hang a rock on yer gun or it'll blow away !" 
 The dude hurried on. He had discovered the solemn 
 humor of the Colorado joke, but had never gone so far 
 ,as to comprehend his own connection therewith. 
 
 The last to descend from the dayrcoach was a woman.
 
 She looked nervous and fluttered. There was the appeal 
 of helpless doubt in her troubled blue eyes as she glanced 
 about, after taking the final step from the car to the plat- 
 form. There she stopped with a frightened abruptness, 
 dropping her small bundle. It fell at the feet of one of 
 the urchins who had hailed the dude. He bent to pick 
 it up, but the woman, mistaking his intentions, made a 
 dash at him. 
 
 " I wa'n't a-goin' to snipe it," said the boy, in resent- 
 ful protest. 
 
 She seized the bundle herself, and stood holding it by 
 its strong hempen string. 
 
 "Well, you let my things be," she muttered, gazing 
 about her uneasily. 
 
 One might have affirmed with assurance that she had 
 never travelled much, but there was something more 
 than the vehement watchfulness of inexperience in the 
 gaze with which she confronted the boy a hysterical 
 reticence, a strained attempt to look unconcerned. She 
 appeared hunted, guilty ; yet with the light of inward 
 peace in her blue eyes, one would have called her gentle, 
 womanly, and good. 
 
 "Mebbe ye'd better try slappin' 'im," suggested a 
 larger boy, edging towards her threateningly. " I'm 'is 
 brother !" 
 
 The woman turned pale. 
 
 " I never thort o' sech a thing !" she cried, drawing 
 back. 
 
 "Well," said the big brother, mollified by the im- 
 pression he had made. 
 
 " Move on, Jim !" cried the policeman. 
 
 The big brother receded into the background. He
 
 had interpreted his role admirably, and the loafers, 
 whose taste for the drama had been whetted by long 
 abstinence, looked balked and disappointed at his early 
 exit. 
 
 As the woman faced the policeman her attention 
 had heretofore been taken up by the importunities of 
 the two boys her look of dread changed in an instant 
 to one of cringing terror. There was no mistaking it. 
 That emotion became visible in every pallid feature, 
 every drawn and quivering line. Terror did not stop 
 with her eyes ; it took possession of her whole body, and 
 made her for the moment an incarnation of repressed 
 fear. 
 
 " That gal's a-goin' to keel over," said a man in the 
 crowd, chancing to observe her nearly. And indeed the 
 woman's fright seemed about to culminate in some sort 
 of paroxysm. She put out her hands grapplingly, like 
 a sick man opposing an enemy in delirium. Some one 
 reached forward to support her. She wavered a mo- 
 ment. That blank horror, faintness, seemed about to 
 ingulf her. Then with an effort she stiffened her slight 
 figure. She stood erect. 
 
 " No," she said, in a voice which she tried in vain to 
 keep steady, " I I ain't a-goin' to keel over. I'm only 
 tired V it's so stiflin' hot !" 
 
 The line of peering eyes closed in about her. She 
 shrank back as from a narrowing circle of fire. The men 
 turned the tobacco in their mouths with some excite- 
 ment, detecting the possibility of a strong passage in 
 the drama, even after Jim's exit. The policeman stood 
 examining her with hard scrutiny, but made no attempt 
 to speak to or detain her.
 
 " I reckon they's suthia' in the bundle wot don't 
 b'long to 'er," suggested an officious bystander. " She 
 hangs on to it like it was the life o' 'er !" 
 
 The woman trembled still more. 
 
 " It's clo'es nothin' but clo'es," she said, trying hard- 
 er than ever to steady her voice and control her quiver- 
 ing muscles. She still avoided the policeman's eye, as 
 if he were the embodiment of her worst fears. 
 . " I bet it's Pompadour Sal, wot the Denver perlice 's 
 arter," suggested a tall man, with a thatch of slate-col- 
 ored hair. " I heerd she was down to Euphrates Crick, 
 'ji' I bet she's gone 'n' come up 'ere fer a new deal !" 
 
 " Oh, shet yer face, Decker, 'n' quit yer beefin'," com- 
 manded the policeman, loftily. 
 
 The woman did not notice that he had taken her 
 part. Perhaps she was too frightened ; perhaps she did 
 not understand the dialect of frontier justice. 
 
 " I reckon I better be goin','' she said, with excited 
 awkwardness. " I I've got bizness up 'ere." 
 
 " Ye wouldn't git away if / was marshal," declared 
 Decker. His rebuff had given his long, pathetic nose a 
 look of momentary excitement and rebellion. 
 
 Evidently the woman feared that she might indeed be 
 detained. She hesitated, moved a little to one side, 
 then, gaining confidence, made her way uncertainly 
 down the platform. She was shivering as if with cold. 
 There were gray circles around her eyes which had not 
 been there when she left the train. The street leading 
 across the bridge and up the slope into the town lay 
 before her. She stumbled and almost fell as she crossed 
 the branch track which curved away to the south. A 
 foot-passenger stared at her curiously.
 
 "This road '11 take me away from the depot, won't 
 it ?" she inquired. But his look of surprise at the ab- 
 surdity of her question made her forget what she had 
 asked, and she hurried on towards the shadow of the 
 bridge with the instinct of a hunted animal for conceal- 
 ment. As she turned hastily and glanced behind her, 
 her face was still convulsed by the throes of that in- 
 ward apprehension was the policeman following her? 
 Yes, he was ; but only with his eyes, as he had followed 
 the drunken cowboy. 
 
 " Heavy blond hair not bleached wild-lookin' blue 
 eyes, a chin that trembles. I'll know 'er if I see 'er 
 ag'in," was his thought. To him the woman was a po- 
 tential criminal, a piece of human bric-a-brac, of possible 
 value in the market of justice. Our officer was not 
 without relations with a force known as Pinkerton's, and 
 had something of a reputation for keenness. 
 
 It may be supplemented, however, that he never set 
 eyes on her again, so that his notes, except for the prac- 
 tice they gave him, were sheer waste of brain. The last 
 he saw of her she was stumbling along up the slope 
 towards the bridge, the sunshine all about her, the calm 
 of early summer in the air. Beyond her the mountains 
 showed their stern profile against the hard blue sky. In 
 one spot the foot-hills were pulling down the gray rain 
 from low-lying clouds. The town looked singularly out 
 of place in the foreground of those stoic peaks. The 
 very river seemed running away from it, and trying not 
 to look back. 
 
 Midway of the bridge the woman turned again, and 
 gave a quick glance behind her. There were only the 
 usual preoccupied pedestrians, each contributing his
 
 sacrifice of dignity to the sum-total of hurry and unrest 
 which is the boast of every Colorado town. A spasm of 
 relief crossed her features. But the faintness which she 
 had shaken off by sheer force of will returned like an 
 ingulfing wave, and she grasped the railing of the bridge 
 to keep from falling. A flight of delirious images swept 
 through her mind. The mountains glided towards her 
 with a horrible, stealthy movement, the bridge heaved, 
 the sunlit water wrapped itself around her feet in flap- 
 ping fabrics of flame. She closed her eyes, feeling her- 
 self sinking dizzily. Even then there were pictures 
 against the gloom stormy clouds shattered by thunder- 
 bolts, apple-blossoms strewn on black velvet. Was she 
 going mad ? Was she dying ? 
 
 It could have lasted but a moment, and she did not 
 quite lose consciousness. The apple - blossoms became 
 white gauze upon the air, the lightning centred itself 
 on a colored sphere where objects were painted. When 
 she came fully to herself she was still standing, but her 
 whole weight was wrenching the cramped arm which she 
 had instinctively thrown around the railing of the bridge. 
 She straightened herself with difficulty. The mountains 
 receded through pale gray blurs, the bridge steadied it- 
 self, the river reflected the sunlight in cool ripples. She 
 glanced around her with sick apprehension. No one 
 had noticed her. She was as completely alone as if she 
 had just reached heaven. 
 
 People passed her, but she did not heed. The human 
 current was nothing ; she heard only the ripple beneath 
 her, keeping time to her own thoughts. She had drifted 
 far from those sounds of joy and sorrow which haunt 
 the secret chambers of human souls.
 
 At last she pushed herself away from the railing with 
 a sigh. 
 
 " The water ain't deep 'nough to drownd a full-grown 
 woomarn 'thout layin' down flat," she said. " No," with 
 a last glance at the hurrying ripple, "I'll take a new start 
 a new start V see what comes o' livin'."
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE woman crossed the bridge and hurried up the 
 street, shrinking a little from a white cur with an abrupt- 
 looking black ear that roused himself from the door of a 
 saloon and barked at her. She paused in front of a 
 grocery where the flies were holding high carnival, and 
 entered. 
 
 An untidy little girl in a gingham bonnet came for- 
 ward from behind the wire screening of a cheese-box. 
 She had been making vicious dabs at the flies with the 
 cheese-knife. But at sight of a customer she dropped 
 her instrument of slaughter. She had a cross-eye which 
 gave her an air of hard suspicion ; her whole make-up 
 indicated a temperament of misanthropic bitterness, and 
 a range of experience so wide as to suggest that her 
 mind had taken possession of her body before its time. 
 
 Yet the woman looked relieved. To the hunted, the 
 very shadows are hunters, and in this girl she saw only 
 the unquestioning innocence of childhood. 
 
 "'Tendin' store?" she asked, in a tone of timid friend- 
 liness. It was pleasant to make advances to a human 
 being after the strain of fear whicli had so long op- 
 pressed her. 
 
 The child nodded. 
 
 "Harm's washin' V dad's drunk," she said. And 
 after a wistful glance outside, " I'd ruther be playin' in 
 the ditch with the kids."
 
 11 
 
 The woman stared. 
 
 " Drunk ?" she repeated. 
 
 "Out in the wood -shed," explained the child, in a 
 business-like tone. " Up las' night countin' 'lection re- 
 turns. Anything wantin' ?" 
 
 The woman did not answer, and the girl elaborated 
 her explanation. 
 
 " Oh, I reckon dad kin hold more'a any man in 
 these 'ere parts," she said, with a sort of pensive 
 pride. " Marm says he has a orfle tank, 'n' I reckon 
 she kin size 'im up 'bout right. Marm says it 'pears 
 like he has to fill up 'bout wunst in so often, 'n' then 
 he's all right till the nex' time." She had a tough, com- 
 pact little voice which refused to spread on reaching the 
 air, but came straight at the listener like a shot. " He 
 says sprees is healthy. He says it's good fer the sys- 
 tum. He says all open-hearted Collyrado folks does it. 
 I'm shore I dunno. Marm says she reckons it's good 
 fer his systum, anyhow, fer he's gettin' so fat she has 
 to put wedges in his clo'es." She grinned, and her cross- 
 eye rolled like an eccentric in its groove. " Marm says 
 we'll end up in the pore -house, but I dunno ; I reckon 
 we won't 's long 's the pertaters 'n' dried apples lasts. 
 Anything wantin'?" 
 
 The woman purchased some crackers and cheese. 
 After paying for them from a purse which seemed toler- 
 ably well filled, she turned towards the door. There she 
 paused. She looked about her doubtfully. 
 
 " Stranger 'ere, I reckon ?" questioned the girl, who 
 had followed her, her cross-eye bulging and revolv- 
 ing. 
 
 " Yes, I be," admitted the woman. " From Illinoy.
 
 12 
 
 On the Illinoy River." The addition was made with 
 something like defiance. 
 
 " Oh," said the girl. Illinoy meant nothing more to 
 her than an indefinite portion of that nebulous haze 
 from which " tenderfeet " came ; and, for all she knew, 
 the river might have been identical with the Ganges. 
 
 " What I want is to to go out on a ranch somers 
 'way out. They's ranches 'round 'ere, ain't they ?" 
 
 "Dead oodles o' 'em," replied the girl. She was 
 crunching a cracker which she had taken from the scale- 
 pan after weighing out the required amount for her cus- 
 tomer. " I hope ye ain't airain' fer Bauragardener's ?" 
 
 " Baumgardener's why not ?" 
 
 " 'Cause they're Dutch. They can't talk United States. 
 They stan' aroun' a-gruntin' at each other like the pigs 
 in the pen. They don't know 's much 's so many green 
 punkins. They don't know 'nough to turn over when 
 they're tired. Whose ranch d' ye want ?" 
 
 " Oh, nobody's in pertickler. I jes' wanted to know 
 what d'rection they be. Be they any off that way?" She 
 pointed towards the most inaccessible mountains. 
 
 "More'n ye could shake a stick at," declared the 
 child, with confidence, still crunching her cracker. 
 
 " 'N' which is the shortest way to 'em ?" 
 
 The child considered. Her cross-eye seemed turned 
 inward. 
 
 " I reckon the shortest way fer you 'ud be straight 
 down -stream. They's a purty good road, V they say 
 b'ars is scurce. I've heerd how they's ranches every 
 which way from 'ere. I reckon ye'll strike one somers, 
 if ye keep on. I reckon ye're runnin' away, hey?" 
 The cross-eye became lively again.
 
 13 
 
 " No no !" cried the woman. " Runnin' away ? What 
 a idee !" Her eyes had lighted up with their old fear. 
 
 " Oh, folks does it here V I've heerd marm say 't 
 the world's all tarred with the same stick. I knowed a 
 man wunst wot had to skin out fer the mountains live- 
 ly, too. He killed 'is pardner. They'd a - dangled 'im 
 from the bridge if they'd a - ketched 'im. Mebbe ye'll 
 find him out there on a ranch somers. I reckon he's 
 alive. I heerd marm say how he b'longed to a breed o' 
 cats like wot don't die." 
 
 The child's business-like manner reassured the woman, 
 and she laughed, but nervously. 
 
 " Mebbe I will," she said, in a tremulous voice. " Well, 
 I reckon I better be goin'." And she glided into the 
 street and around the corner. 
 
 " Queer cattle, these 'ere tenderfeet," mused the cross- 
 eyed girl, returning to her cheese-knife and flies. 
 
 A walk of five minutes brought the woman to the out- 
 skirts of the town. She was near the river again she 
 could hear its inconsequent babble beyond the cedar- 
 fringed bank. In a moment the current flashed into 
 view, and she stopped to watch the restless glitter and to 
 listen to the murmurous echoes from the opposite shore. 
 Before her were the Donhala Hills, dappled with pinon 
 and scarred with gulches ; at her back rose the moun- 
 tains, with parting snow - peaks showing the blue sky 
 between. 
 
 She strayed into a road whose course might have 
 marked the windings of a boy on a fishing excursion. 
 In half an hour she came into a pleasant bottom where 
 the grim face of Nature took an upward curve. The 
 sunshine silvered the cotton-woods as if reflected from
 
 14 
 
 the water. Everything sraelled clean and cool, and the 
 rocks looked as if the dew had washed them. Along 
 the river's edge the violet's blue favor fluttered, and 
 " shooting-stars " dropped soft crimson shadows into the 
 water. 
 
 " This is a purty place," she mused, drawing in one 
 long breath after another. "I reckon I better stop 'n' 
 eat suthin' I ain't touched a thing sence yistiddy noon. 
 I was afeerd to git off the telegraph goes everywhere." 
 
 She stooped to the spring, and drank from her hol- 
 lowed palm ; then opened her sack of crackers and ate. 
 
 " Mountains 'n' mountains ! They're scattered aroun' 
 's careless 's sacks o' grain. I never seen nothin' like 
 'em afore never. A body could hide 'ere 'n' never be 
 found. lowy w'y, lowy ain't a patchin' to it, nohow. 
 Our orchard was purty, though, in May, when ye could 
 look up from under the trees 'n' see the sky full o' blos- 
 soms." 
 
 She plucked a lone white primrose and dropped it 
 lightly into the water. 
 
 " I wonder where it '11 go ?" she thought. " I wonder 
 where Pll go ?" 
 
 As she ate, her eyes mechanically followed the printed 
 page in which her bundle was wrapped. It was an Iowa 
 newspaper with a " patent" inside. There was a column 
 headed " Gems of Thought," and it was upon this that 
 her eye had fallen : 
 
 " Death is the precipice over which the stream of life 
 plunges into eternity. It remains with us to have it 
 spanned by the rainbow of hope, or see it plunge down- 
 ward into the darkness of despair." 
 
 She read the words twice, then sat gazing out upon
 
 15 
 
 the river. The wind blew freshly up-stream ; the weeds 
 along the margin rose and bent with the teasing caresses 
 of the water. 
 
 "Is it a thing we can do fer ourselves?" she asked, 
 aloud. " Or is it the work o' God's grace ?" 
 
 Her eyes turned again to the printed column. 
 
 " Every event in our lives is a prophecy fulfilled or un- 
 fulfilled." 
 
 " That's a orfle idee," she murmured, after thinking it 
 over. " 'N' if it's true, what '11 my future be ?" 
 
 She finished her breakfast and started on. " No mat- 
 ter," she concluded, " God can 'tend to it !" The sun- 
 shine, the trees, the mountains all at once filled her with 
 a large, joyous faith which made the creative Love re- 
 sistless. She could have sung, had not the river taken 
 the words out of her mouth beforehand. Each step dis- 
 closed new beauties, new sublimities. The park narrowed 
 to a canon ; the river deepened ; the shadows leaped 
 headlong from the heights into the current. The rush- 
 ing, booming sound of the water gave her a pleasant 
 sense of deafness, as if nature were trying to impress 
 upon her the remoteness of the world. 
 
 " Things seem tryin' to be good to me," she thought, 
 lingering here and there to look and listen. 
 
 She came to a swollen tributary of the river, full of 
 the red and yellow coloring of the foot-hills. "That 
 must a-been a hard shower up there," she thought. But 
 the cloud had gone, and the snowy peaks rose on all 
 sides like lofty shrines of pearl, clear cut against a sky 
 of periwinkle blue. 
 
 The river beach disappeared. The water which, in 
 the broad shallows of the park, had loitered in the sun-
 
 1C 
 
 shine like a little child, " patient of idleness," plunged 
 through shadowy defiles with a sullen rush and uttered 
 its call strongly, in the tone of epic purpose. There 
 were heavy throbs of sound in the lateral gulches, like 
 thoughts struggling hopelessly in benumbed brains. 
 The mountains became subjective, occupying time, not 
 space, like the operations of one's mind. 
 
 The road got along as best it could among rocks and 
 fallen timber. Once the woman heard a wagon behind 
 her, the thunder of its wheels shaking the rude bridge 
 she had just crossed, and she concealed herself hastily. 
 From behind a rock she watched ; but she could have 
 laughed at the idea of danger from that honest wagoner, 
 jogging along with nothing but the mountain landscape 
 and his dinner in prospect. He would have been glad 
 to give her a lift, she knew; but she was not tired, and 
 it did her good to be alone. It refreshed her like a 
 pause in prolonged hard work. 
 
 Finally the road turned away from the river and 
 climbed along the side of a gulch, feeling its way around 
 points of rock in mid-air, or struggling upward among 
 the gaunt pines. No engineer ever saw that road ex- 
 cept, possibly, in a nightmare. But painters have had in- 
 spired dreams of it. Below, along an unseen tributary 
 of the river, the cottonwoods made a glittering green 
 blur, and on the steep-up slopes the pines ascended 
 solemnly, like priests going up to a sacrifice. Trans- 
 verse gulches branched off on every hand deep, silent 
 clefts packed full of shadows, revealing a white water- 
 fall here and there, like a veiled maiden leaping out 
 from the rocks and disappearing in a flash. The trees 
 swayed dreamily in the thick, submarine light of the
 
 17 
 
 gulches ; the snow sent a zigzag gleam along the horizon. 
 That gray-and-black world is so beautiful ! One looks 
 at it and falls in love with desolation. And the moun- 
 tains they take one's breath; they are like visible 
 thunder. One thinks, but blankly, as in the presence of 
 God. They are supernatural ; it is as if the gazer were 
 cut off by death from those trivial scenes where time 
 gives and takes all things, and set down in some realm 
 of stupendous abstract ideas. It is enough to exist; 
 one becomes forgetful of duty, pleasure, and suffering, 
 and drinks in the magnificent indifference of the uni- 
 verse. But when the storms come in summer, these 
 gulches wake up in anger, the air is torn by the discord 
 of torrents. The Atbara itself, bearing its freight of 
 dead elephants and buffaloes down to the Nile, is not 
 more violent than one of these suddenly distempered 
 streams. Then the mountains are tremulous with land- 
 slides, and one shivers with a sense of the destructive 
 forces which underlie the frail edifice of the world. 
 
 Twice the road branched, and each time the woman 
 was tempted to turn aside, knowing that a ranch must 
 be near at hand. 
 
 " 'Tain't fur 'nough yit," she said to herself. " I 
 want to git so fu^t I can defy 'em !" 
 
 By the middle of the afternoon the sun was low on 
 the mountain-tops. " Is the day gone so soon ?" she 
 questioned, in dismay. The rocks were melting into 
 the colorless tone of shadows, the wind became a warn- 
 ing voice. Along a misty ridge high above her the 
 pines seemed groping disconsolate. 
 
 She paused, gazing up at the ridge wistfully. " If I 
 could only git up there," she thought, " I reckon I could
 
 18 
 
 have a wide view 'n' see where to go. I must hurry, 
 hurry !" And she pushed on, half running. 
 
 The hollow spaces of air between her and the moun- 
 tains filled up ; the peaks seemed so close that she could 
 reach out and touch them. She lost the pine-clad ridge 
 with its canopy of swaying cloud; but presently it came 
 into view again, the vaporous outlines of the pines still 
 etched softly against their misty background. 
 
 " Does the road lead up there ?" she questioned. " If 
 the light '11 only last till I kin look aroun' me !" 
 
 The road approached the misty ridge circuitously. 
 The sun touched the mountain-tops and sank in a flying 
 splendor of prismatic cloud. The pines shivered, pierced 
 by the last golden lance of sunset. A cool wind sprang 
 up from the west. The peaks rose gray against the 
 shrunken red lights and looked as if struck with death. 
 
 " If I should have to sleep out 'ere " the woman 
 thought, gazing fearfully at her wild surroundings. She 
 hurried forward, assuring herself that she was in no real 
 peril even if she failed to find a lodging for the night. 
 The wild beasts were nearly all hunted out of existence, 
 and she was altogether reckless of a wetting. 
 
 The road came out on the ridge which she had kept 
 before her as a sort of goal. The pines seemed chasing 
 each other all about her, tearing their way through the 
 clouds, which fluttered away in tatters and dropped out 
 of sight in the big, still gulches. The shadows fell gray 
 and dense ; there were awful whisperings in the upper 
 air, low sobbings, ghostly laughter. The human soul 
 alone in the mountains is made the butt of Nature's tre- 
 mendous jokes, and takes it tragically. 
 
 At last the road branched again into a wagon-track
 
 19 
 
 leading away to* the left through the fog. The woman 
 turned aside eagerly. A ranch must be near! Good- 
 fortune had not deserted her ; it had been attendant on 
 her wishes all day. 
 
 In a few moments a dull blot of light appeared on the 
 mist, a white sphere shading into gray edges. Gradually 
 it became oblong and angular. She hurried towards it, 
 finding her proper self again in the prospect of human 
 companionship. Presently she distinguished the loud, 
 muffled barking of dogs. 
 
 " They've heerd me," she muttered. And then, thank- 
 fully, " I'm glad they're in the house." And she sped 
 onward through the mist.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE woman knocked, and the dogs barked louder. 
 
 " Well, I'll be kadwiddled !" cried a voice from with- 
 in a feminine voice, shrilly pitched, capable of com- 
 plaints, objurgations, shrieks. Then there was a listen- 
 ing silence. " Teared like I heerd knockin'," the voice 
 continued. " I shouldn't wonder if I got to seem' things 
 next snakes 'n' beetles, like ole man Stincen when he 
 had the tremens. Who'd be comin' 'ere ? Make them 
 dawgs shet up ! Their barkin' goes clean through me." 
 
 The stranger repeated her knock. 
 
 " It is some 'un !" cried the voice, growing shriller 
 with excitement. " Well, be ye goin' to open the door? 
 Better slam yer frame up agin the side o' the house a 
 few more times better stram 'n' straddle aroun' the 
 table two-three hours longer afore ye make up yer mind 
 the knockin' comes from the outside." 
 
 The door was opened by a man or was it a baby 
 gone to seed ? who uttered a howl of surprise. 
 
 " Sufferin' catfish ! it's a woomarn !" he cried, while 
 his left arm and leg flew up as if jerked by a string. 
 
 "A woomarn?" echoed the voice far back, in the 
 room. "Ye've got 'em wuss 'n Stincen, to be seein' 
 wimmin at this time o' night ! Wimmin ! If I had a 
 dollar I'd give it to ye to go off 'n' fling mud at yerself. 
 Or is it Cynthy Beanston ? If 'tis, ye kin jes' tell 'er to 
 shin out o' this or I'll heave bilin' water on 'er. So there !"
 
 " But this ain't Cynthy," cried the man. " It's a 
 bctter-lookin' 'un. This 'un's got light hair !" His left 
 arm was still extended at a right angle to his body, like 
 the lecturer at a dime museum who is exhibiting a mon- 
 strosity. 
 
 There was a moment's silence which had the effect of 
 culmination. Then the directing voice in the rear of the 
 room assumed an awful tone. 
 
 " Well," it said, " be ye goin' to ast 'er to come in ? 
 Or be ye goin' to teeter aroun' there till Jedgment Day, 
 like a whangdoodle on one leg ? Or ain't ye goin' to do 
 nuther? Ye don't mean to stan' there a-gogglin' at 'er 
 all night, I hope !" 
 
 " Come in !" cried the man, flinging the door wide. 
 He stared in a shamefaced way as the stranger passed 
 him. Then, with a wild longing for something on which 
 to lay " the emphasis of hospitality," he made a dash at 
 the three dogs who were still barking furiously. " Jump- 
 in' jee !" he yelled, " where's the manners o' them crit- 
 ters ? Git out, Keno ! afore I tromple yer frame with 
 both feet !" He took after the three dogs all at once, 
 kicking and waving his arms, but never hitting anything. 
 " You-Know 'n' Nipper, go 'n' lay down by the fire, or 
 I'll kick a lung out o' ye !" 
 
 The stranger had entered. The firelight played across 
 her pale features and lustrous coils of close -wound hair. 
 The old woman stared, leaning forward and grasping the 
 arms of her chair. 
 
 " A young woomarn, 'Biathar ! a young woomarn with 
 with a bundle." The words finished her surprise 
 feebly, and she added at once for emphasis, " Well, I'll 
 be consquizzled !"
 
 Abiathar grinned sheepishly. 
 
 " Yesser, a gal," he articulated, with a gurgle of de- 
 light. " 'N' ye kin jes' git away from 'er, Keno, or I'll 
 eat yer liver 'n' wear ye out ! Well 1" He had a mild, 
 luniform face, with lavender-colored pimples, and in the 
 candlelight his skin took on a sweaty glister. He moved 
 about the room in awkward agitation, exhibiting in all 
 its phases that anarchy of the soul which possesses the 
 Colorado cowboy at sight of a woman, especially if she 
 be young. 
 
 On a deal table a few clumsy earthen-ware dishes had 
 been arranged for supper. A fire burned on the big 
 open hearth, near which an old woman sat, propped up 
 by pillows. Bacon was sputtering over the fire, and took 
 the air with an appetizing odor. 
 
 The stranger paused in timid apology. She held her 
 bundle by both hands in front of her, and her head was 
 bent a little forward. 
 
 " I'm sorry if I skeerd ye," she said, and her voice 
 sounded strangely musical after the strident tones of the 
 man. 
 
 The old woman's face softened. Her features were 
 wrinkled, sharp, and hard, indicating an Alpine rugged- 
 ness of character like her surroundings. 
 
 " I ain't skeerd ! But I own I'm took back. 'Biathar, 
 quit yer slallyin' aroun' the table, for any sakes, 'n' tend 
 to the bacon afore it's scorched to a cinder. 'D ye ever 
 see the way that critter throws hisself ? It's allus been 
 jes' so ; if they was a gal within gunshot, ye'd see 
 'im begin to snicker 'n' snort 'n' act the fool gen'ral- 
 ]y. If I was well for the inside o' a day, I tell ye 
 I'd straighten him out, if I had to do it with a stick
 
 2,3 
 
 o' timber ! Good Ian' ! Where'd ye drop from, any- 
 way ?" 
 
 The stranger answered, with grave gentleness : 
 
 " I come up from Donhaly City." 
 
 " 'Biathar, 'd ye hear that? She come up from Don- 
 haly City. Where's yer hoss ?" 
 
 "I walked." 
 
 The old woman sank back as if taking deliberate 
 counsel of her own credulity. 
 
 " Ye walked," she repeated, vacantly. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " All alone ?" 
 
 Yes." 
 
 " She walked all alone." The words were uttered 
 with a ponderous calm. 
 
 There was another silence. Then : 
 
 " Well, I'll be bamsquogglcd !" the old woman cried. 
 
 Nipper a mangy yellow cur that looked as if he had 
 been picked up in the alley back of a taxidermist's shop 
 sniffed about the young woman's skirts, then sank in 
 front of the fire. ' , 
 
 " He won't bite. He ain't got no teeth. We jes' 
 keep 'im 'cause we've had 'im so long," said the old 
 woman, vaguely. She still sat leaning forward with the 
 light of hard examination in her gaze. She was very 
 thin, and the candlelight drew hard little triangles in 
 both cheeks and stuffed her eye-sockets full of shadows, 
 through which her eyes pricked like electric points. 
 
 " Set down set down, ma'am !" she cried, at last. 
 " 'Biathar, do quit lankin' aroun' in that everlastin' per- 
 misc'ous way, 'n' set a cheer fer the vis'tor. I swan, it's 
 been so long scnce I've had comp'ny, I dunno how to act.
 
 Take the lady's bundle V lay it on the kag there by the 
 cubbard. 'N' heng up 'er hat fling them gunnysacks 
 down anywheres. I'm clean 'shamed o' that boy, I am. 
 Livin' 'ere in the mountains, he ain't got no more man- 
 ners 'n a house pig. I've often told 'im so, but it don't 
 seem to do no good. I tell Zury that's my old man 
 't folks ortn't to have fam'lies if they can't rustle aroun' 
 'n' find a decent place to bring 'em up in. 'N' what d'ye 
 reckon he says to that ?" 
 
 The stranger shook her head. 
 
 " He says, if a feller can't do what he wants to do, 
 the nex' bes' thing is to do graceful what we have to 
 do. 'N' he meant it, too that's jest 's much 's he keers. 
 Graceful ! I'd like to ketch myself doin' things grace- 
 ful 't I didn't want to do ! I find the only way to git 
 what I want is to kick 'n' high. 'N' like 's not I don't 
 git it then. Things is so contrairy in this Western coun- 
 try. A feller 'd better be in Tunket any day he had. 
 So ye walked all the way from Donhaly City, ma'am ? 
 Good Ian' ! what '11 Zury say to that ? Well, I was young 
 myself wunst, 'n' I've found out 't a stirrin' foot '11 allus 
 git suthin', if it's only a thorn. It's a mis' able world !" 
 
 " It seems to me a beautiful kind o' world," said the 
 stranger, with soft, bright eyes. " It never looked so 
 purty 's it did to me to-day so like the work o' God." 
 
 " God ?" cried the old woman, harshly " God ? What's 
 He got to do with it ? I tell ye, it's devil 't ails this 
 world ! Oh, I've seen lots o' it sixty years o' it 'n' I 
 know !" 
 
 She went on with a robustness of assertion, a vigor of 
 presentation which fairly took her breath, but quieted 
 down at last with a sort of gasp.
 
 25 
 
 " 'N' ye reely b'lieve they is a God ?" she asked, fixing 
 her eyes on the stranger with grim wonder. 
 
 " Surely !" 
 
 " Well, I'll be ragfuddled ! I made shore 't everybody 
 'd give up that idee long ago !" 
 
 " I'll never give it up," said the quiet voice. 
 
 " Jes' wait till ye've lived a year in Collyraydo ! Well, 
 it don't matter ; stick to it, if it's a comfert to ye. How 
 'd ye happen to git here, anyhow ?" 
 
 " I can't hardly say. This ain't Baumgardener's, is it ?" 
 
 The old woman laughed with shrill gusto. 
 
 " 'Biathar, she wants to know if we ain't Baumgar- 
 deners ! I shouldn't wonder if she thort we was Dutch, 
 by the way we talked. Lor', no, child ! They live over 
 torrards Rattlesnake Gulch, beyond Starbird's. Our 
 name 's Irish. We don't come from Ireland, but we 
 might, fer all the good we be on this airth. 'Biathar, 
 quit yer gawkin' at the lady V 'tend to yer knittin'. Ye 
 mus' try not to mind 'im I've sometimes thort mebbe 
 he ain't 'countable fer 'is own foolishness. Go off, do ! 
 it's 'nough to drive a cat wild to see the way ye go 
 slaggerin' aroun'. Put on 'nother plate 'n' set out the 
 glass sugar-bowl, fer the Ian' sake ; 'n' open a can o' 
 them Californy peaches ; 'n' where's the blue-glass salt- 
 cellar with the nickel-plated led ? 'N' when the coffee's 
 done, go out 'n' yell fer dad 'n' Julius. Julius is my 
 oldes' one. He's the only one o' the fam'ly 't knows 
 'nough to chaw fast 'n' swoller straight. Good Ian' ! I 
 ain't seen a woomarn afore a reel wooinarn, I mean 
 fer three hull months. They's a gal Cynthy Beanston 
 she comes over wunst in a while from Barb Wire 
 Ranch she'd be 'ere all the time if I'd let 'er. But she
 
 ain't a woomarn ; she's a thing, V don't count. She don't 
 know she's 'live half the time, she's sech a fool. Do 
 dust off that sugar-bowl, 'Biathar ! Look at 'im, now, 
 goin' to set it out jes' like he took it off 'm the shelf 
 *oh, he's a honeysuckle, 'Biathar is, V me laid up 'ere fer 
 three solid weeks with rheumatics, 'n' everything goin' 
 to rack 'n' ruin with the dust on it. Don't stan' there 
 all night with yer mouth open, tryin' to take in every- 
 thing at one look, like God A'mighty ; but git a rag git 
 a rag 'n' dust it off ! Well, it does me good to see ye, 
 ma'am, anyhow ! I don't see nothin' but cows 'n' moun- 
 tains, year in 'n' year out, as ye might say. Sometimes 
 I feel like I'd turned into a cow or a mountain, I dunno 
 which. What's yer name, anyhow ?" 
 
 " Webster Emmy Webster." 
 
 The answer came with a hesitating promptness which 
 caused Mrs. Irish to meditate for a moment. 
 
 " That ain't that gal's name no more 'n 'tis mine," she 
 was thinking. " She's a-runnin' away from somers 'n' 
 tryin' to hide 'erself. She ain't used to lyin', though. 
 That's one thing in 'er favior." But aloud she said, in a 
 tone of conciliation : " I allus had a soft side fer the 
 name o' Emmy. I had a sister wunst named that. She 
 was younger 'n me. She had blue eyes ; 'n' I 'member 
 the little pink gownd she useter wear on Sundays, with 
 tucks 'n' a sash, V 'er hair curled in 'er neck. She died 
 when she was a little thing she was allus frail. They 
 buried 'er up on the hill, along o' the others jest atween 
 the ole orchard 'n' the woods. I kep' 'er picter fer years 
 one o' them daguerrytypes on lookin'-glass ; but we 
 lost it somehow in packin' 'n' unpackin' when we come 
 to Collyraydo."
 
 Something in this recollection had wrought a change 
 in the old woman's face and manner. Her voice had 
 become softly reminiscent ; she was gazing at her visitor, 
 but beyond her. The fire purred softly ; there was a 
 musical stir in the chimney, as if the night had suddenly 
 become vocal. From the outside world came" the noise 
 of the water in the gulch below the house, deepening 
 into boding murmurs or dying out in a whispering rev- 
 erie. 
 
 " 'Ud ye mind lettin' me take up the supper ?" Emma 
 finally asked. " I'm used to workin' 'bout the house. 
 I've done it all my life, 'n' I'm shore 'Biathar won't ob- 
 ject." This was accompanied by a smile in the direction 
 of the young man. 
 
 Abiathar's face split into a slow, broad grin. " Oh, / 
 won't kick ye kin go a-gamblin' on that," he declared. 
 
 " Shame on ye fer a lazy heap, 'Biathar !" cried his 
 mother. " Arter she's gone 'n' walked all the way from 
 Donhaly City, too. Where's yer manners? Emmy '11 
 make shore I ain't done my duty by ye. I reckon ye'll 
 let me call ye Emmy, won't ye?" 
 
 " Yes, do." The young woman was peeping into the 
 coffee - pot. " It's jest on the p'int o' bilin'," she an- 
 nounced. " Shall I take up the pertaters 'n' bacon ?" 
 
 " I reckon ye might 's well. 'Biathar, go out 'n' yell 
 for dad 'n' Julius. I'm clean took back at the way ye 
 find us," said the old woman, unable to keep silent on 
 those subjects on which, as a housewife, she was most 
 sensitive. " Ye wouldn't find things in sech a mess if I 
 was able to crawl aroun', I kin tell ye that. But what 
 be I to do ? If a feller can't, they can't, 'n' what's the 
 use o' roarin' ? Well, it does look good to see a woomarn
 
 28 
 
 handlin' the dishes, V no mistake. Sech times 's I've 
 had ! I swan, I wouldn't live the las' three weeks over 
 ag'in, I wouldn't not fer the hull State o' Collyraydo, 
 'n' Canady throwed in. Here I've sot watchin 'Biathar 
 striddle gravy from floor to ceilin' till I've had to grit 
 my teeth "to keep out o' a fit it's the heavenly truth ! I 
 useter 'low 'twas bad 'nough to do the work o' a ranch 
 when I was well ; 'n' many a time I've thort o' the poitry 
 in my ole reading-book to school : 
 
 " ' It's oh, to be a slave 
 
 Along o' the barb'rous Turk, 
 Where wimmin has never a soul to save, 
 If this is Christian work!' 
 
 But it was joy 'longside o' havin' to watch 'Biathar keep 
 house. See la ! you ain't spilt a drop. If he'd a-took 
 up that bacon, now, he'd a-swizzled great puddles o' it 
 into every corner o' the room, 'n' finished by plasterin' 
 it up agin the winders. Look at this floor! Ain't it 
 'nough to kill snakes? 'N' me a-settin' 'ere fer three 
 weeks, a-lookin' on 'n' tryin' to keep still ! I tole Zury 
 yestiddy he'd have to go down to town 'n' git a gal. 
 We're poorer 'n' Poverty's backdoor jes' look at us! 
 Don't we look like Poverty salutin' Mis'ry on the Rocks 
 o' Despair ? But I can't stan' everything. 'Biathar makes 
 me clean wompercropt with 'is mixin's 'n' mussin's." 
 
 Emma Webster stopped between the fireplace and the 
 table, regarding the old woman earnestly. 
 
 " Ye was talkin' o' sendin' fer a gal ?" she asked. 
 
 " I tole 'em they'd have to see to it to-morrer. I tell 
 ye I can't stan' it " 
 
 " Would ye let me stay ?" asked Emma Webster, ea- 
 gerly.
 
 29 
 
 The old woman's swollen hands grasped the arms of 
 her chair with tremulous excitement. 
 
 " You ?" 
 
 " I'd be so glad ! I can do the work. I'm young V 
 strong 'n' willin'. 'N' I'm a good nurse. I 'tended my 
 mother all through 'er las' sickness. If ye reckon I'd 
 do" 
 
 Mrs. Irish leaned forward eagerly, 
 
 "Do? If I reckon ye'd do?" She chopped up her 
 speech into half syllables in her excitement. " I feel like 
 gittin' down on my knees 'n' thankin' ye ! I'd like ye, 
 1 know ; I like ye a'ready. Ye take hold jes j 's handy 
 's if ye'd been borned 'ere. Don't they expect ye no- 
 wheres else ?" 
 
 Emma Webster shook her head. 
 
 " Then it's settled !" cried Mrs. Irish, with joyful de- 
 cision. " I feel like the hull Snowy Range 'd been lift- 
 ed off o' me ! 'N' 'ere 's dad 'n' Julius." 
 
 Two men entered, clattering across the floor in their 
 heavy cowhide boots. One was a plump old man, with 
 upward - slanting wrinkles, a peachy complexion, and an 
 abdominal region bearing the curve with which nature 
 surrounds a good digestion when encouraged by plenty 
 of food and an easy temper. 
 
 The other member of the small household, Julius Irish, 
 was cast in a more strenuous mould. His tall, solid fig- 
 ure, exhibiting the " manly quality of leanness," had an 
 intrinsic dignity independent of clothes, and was finished 
 off by a head which seemed predestined to dominate. A 
 strong edifice, but an edifice with the soul for a founda- 
 tion ; a man who could fight, but never except for a 
 principle. His face was thin and severe, a monument to
 
 the conquests of a strong will over self-interest ; but its 
 sternness shaded off around the edges, so to speak, into 
 a kindly tolerance, which, in a man of broad experience, 
 would be ascribed to a wide comparison of men, and a 
 repeated adjustment of self under new conditions. This 
 peculiarity in Julius Irish indicated a mental experience 
 large when the limitations of his life were taken into ac- 
 count. He had thought much, had reached conclusions ; 
 the truth was in him, though sometimes unorganized, 
 scattered, like a half-dreamed melody in the brain of a 
 musician. In religion he might easily substitute / for 
 God, but never for his fellows. 
 
 The two looked at Emma Webster in reticent sur- 
 prise. " Well, mother !" cried the old man. " So we've 
 got comp'ny, have we ? Good ! we need cheerin' up 
 we've been too much alone lately !" And he rubbed his 
 hands in hearty satisfaction. 
 
 Mrs. Irish bridled. 
 
 " Yes, I'd talk 'bout cheerin' up if I'd jes' been down 
 to Denver on a compoun' double-' n'-twisted toot!" she 
 cried. 
 
 " On bizness, mother on bizness," corrected her hus- 
 band. 
 
 Julius Irish came forward and offered his hand. 
 
 " I'm glad to see ye," he said, with simple directness. 
 " Mother's been longin' fer the sight o' a woomarn 
 they're mighty scurce in these parts." 
 
 " Few V scatterin', like hens' teeth," added the old 
 man, facetiously. " 'N' twic't 's welcome !" 
 
 They sat down to supper. Julius drew up his mother's 
 chair and filled her plate, pausing to ask a solicitous ques- 
 tion now and then. " Shall I put gravy on yer pertater ?
 
 31 
 
 Or 'ud ye rather have butter? Tell me when I git on 
 'nough salt yc know ye don't like 's much 's what I do." 
 Emma watched this Julius as she poured the coffee. 
 She thought him handsome and something more. She 
 had never before seen a man with so gentle and severe a 
 face. 
 
 " If he's cross, though, I reckon it's mostly with his- 
 self," she decided, with a sigh of relief. " He looks like 
 he wouldn't be easy satisfied with 'is own doin's." 
 
 Julius looked at her occasionally with curiosity. Where 
 had she come from ? What was her business here ? 
 
 As the supper progressed, Mrs. Irish explained her ar- 
 rangement with the stranger. 
 
 " That's good," said Julius, with a glance of quiet 
 approval. " I reckon ye're jest what mother's been 
 needin'. She'll be well in no time now." 
 
 During the remainder of the meal Abiathar emitted 
 desultory gurgles of joy, but continued as attentive as 
 ever to the recurrent duties of the table. Mrs. Irish com- 
 plained of the climate, which she made altogether re- 
 sponsible for her illness. 
 
 " It's this 'ere air," she declared. " It dries up all the 
 juice in a feller's joints, V then o' course they creak V 
 ache ; 'n' the nights is so cold up 'ere all summer 't we 
 can't have the winders open, 'n' I'm shore that's bad." 
 She explained the presence of a pot of tall lilies, whose 
 fragrance was faintly perceptible above the odors of 
 supper, by assuring the stranger that there were frosts 
 here even in June. " I did want a posy or two like we 
 useter have back East, 'n' so I sent fer some roots, 'n' 
 this 'un growed. But if I was to leave it out-doors one 
 night it 'ud look like I'd poured scaldin' water all over it.
 
 We can't grow pertaters nor notbin' up 'ere. Oh yes, 
 we've got a garden down in the Back Canon" she 
 spoke of the place as if it were the back yard " V the 
 hills seems to keep the frosts off so 't we git a purty 
 good crop. But we have to lug everything up that's 
 one o' Zury's bright idees. When we git a new house, 
 though, / mean to have a word to say, V it '11 be down 
 near the garden, or they'll be scenery in this fambly, I 
 can tell ye ! I dunno 's the new house '11 ever show up 
 we come 'ere with a four-thousand-dollar blanket on 
 us, V we've jes' got red o' it, so 't mebbe we might fix 
 a decent place to poke our heads in if Zury could make 
 up 'is mind to stay away from Denver. Quit strugglin' 
 with yer food, 'Biathar ! He goes at it like a saw-mill. 
 It's a outrage on yer systum to eat 's much 's what ye 
 do, anyway that's yer fifth slice o' bacon, fer I've been 
 countin'. I'm shore nobody ever tried harder to learn a 
 boy decent manners; but what's the good? I talk V 
 talk, but when he gits to the table well, it jes' seems to 
 run in at one ear 'n' out at the other !" 
 
 Little by little it was revealed that Mr. Irish had been 
 to Denver regularly once in every four years since their 
 settlement on Cloud Mountain. He had just returned 
 from his third trip, and it was inferred from his own 
 story that he had passed the time pleasantly. 
 
 " Oh, dad's got a corner on all the fun o' this fambly," 
 cried the old woman, bitterly. " The boys 'n' me hain't 
 never been further 'n Donhaly City sence we struck the 
 State. Every four years ! If I could do that, I'd feel 
 like life was one continerous round o' joy." 
 
 Mr. Irish took these complaints quietly. His four 
 years at home were the Olympiad between Games. The
 
 two "boys" said but little, Abiathar assenting to a re- 
 mark now and then by a nod and a grin. When Julius 
 spoke, it was in a slow, soft voice, which came through 
 his nose with deliberation. He did all things deliberate- 
 ly. One felt in his most casual actions a large-minded 
 seriousness, which was the result of forethought. 
 
 But this evening Julius was even more silent than 
 usual. It was the silence of attentive observation. His 
 eyes wandered over Emma Webster's face and hair. 
 " She looks tired," he was thinking. " She'd be pretty 
 if she didn't look so tired." The fire stirred and crackled 
 pleasantly. The shadows danced along the wall, glan- 
 cing sideways, closing together, leaping apart in ill- 
 considered estrangement. Against the ceiling above the 
 fireplace they were quite motionless, clinging close, like 
 swallows' nests under the eaves.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 SUPPER over, Emma Webster cleared off the table and 
 washed the dishes. Julius brought forth a battered Cot- 
 tage Encyclopaedia, a fragment from the Eastern wreck 
 of other days. He settled himself to a geological ac- 
 count of the extinction of undeveloped forms of life. 
 He was reading the book through for the fourth 
 time, and was always glad when he reached anything 
 of a geological nature. It seemed to make him bet- 
 ter acquainted with the mountains among which he 
 lived. 
 
 Mr. Irish smoked, with both elbows on his knees and 
 both hands grasping his stained cob pipe. The firelight 
 lit up his heavy, cheerful face, and emphasized the 
 smooth, porcine outline of cheek and jaw. He had a 
 persistent physiognomy, handed down from generations 
 of Saxon ancestors, who had always eaten as much as 
 they could hold, and never been troubled by a misfit. 
 Abiathar stumbled about the room in an unmeaning 
 way, while his mother continued her trade of admonition 
 and reproof. 
 
 Once on her way to the cupboard Emma Webster 
 paused and lifted the lily bells, whose faces drooped 
 among the shadows with a sort of proud humility. 
 
 " Ye like posies ?" asked Julius, looking up from his 
 book. His gentle, drawling voice, with just a hint of 
 thickness, was strangely in contrast with his alert gaze,
 
 35 
 
 which was sometimes too prolonged and wide-eyed for 
 comfort. 
 
 " Yes," she answered, half timidly. 
 
 " So do I." 
 
 It was nothing. But it pleased her to think that in 
 this grim ranchman there should exist a fondness for 
 beautiful, useless things. 
 
 " He has a kind heart if he loves flowers," she said to 
 herself. She had a watchful eye for those acts and omis- 
 sions which constitute a man's conduct, and stamp him, 
 from the exterior, as good or bad. 
 
 When the dishes were done she sat down by the fire- 
 place, opposite the old woman, and folded her hands 
 lightly in her lap. 
 
 " I'll clean up in the mornin'," she promised. " I 
 reckon I'm more tired 'n what I thort I was. It's a 
 long walk, though I enjoyed every step o' it. But I be- 
 gin to feel it now." 
 
 "A good night's rest '11 hearten ye up wonderful," 
 declared the old woman. " 'Biathar, quit jewkin' yer 
 head down 'n' gawpin'. If yer dad had the least idee 
 o' doin' his dooty by ye, he'd give ye a harness to mend, 
 or suthin' to make ye look sensible. That boy '11 be the 
 death o' me yit," she added, turning to Emma with a 
 shrill accession of petulance. " What d'ye reckon he's 
 set on doin' ?" 
 
 "What ye goin' to tell now?" cried Abiathar, with 
 voluble indistinctness. "Be ye goin' to tell 'er that?' 1 ' 1 
 and a conscious grin suffused his pimples clear up 
 to his eyes. 
 
 His mother made a superior gesture, at the same 
 time turning squarely to Emma.
 
 " Ye won't be here long afore ye know Cynthy Bean- 
 ston," she said. " She's allus a-hengin' around 'Biathar. 
 Well, when ye see 'er ye'll think the Lord was jokin' 
 when he made 'er. 'Biathar V her make a hull fool- 
 house when they git together V a big 'un, too." Here 
 she preserved a moment's silence, to give her proclama- 
 tion its full effect. "'N' he wants to double up with 
 'er !" Then, after another momentous pause, " Think 
 o 1 bein' gran'mother to their young 'uns think o' havin' 
 'em named arter ye !" And she drew herself in at the 
 waist and settled back in her chair, as a sense of the far- 
 reaching irony of maternity broke in upon her. 
 
 Abiathar still grinned, but he attempted no retort. 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Irish, removing his pipe and gazing 
 about him with the air of Poseidon calming a storm, " I 
 dunno 's 'Biathar could do better. Ye couldn't expect a 
 smart gal to have 'im." 
 
 " That's so !" cried Abiathar, catching at the reason 
 joyfully. " A smart gal wouldn't. 'N' so it's Cynthy 
 or nobody !" 
 
 " Let it be nobody, then !" proclaimed the old woman, 
 with battlesome emphasis. " I heerd a preacher say 
 wunst 't every man kerries his own hell inside, V I 
 know I do mine. 'N' I don't p'ose to have one outside, 
 too!" 
 
 " I could go V live with the Beanstons," said Abia- 
 thar. " It 'ud save 'em a hired man." 
 
 " Don't say 'nother word 'bout it !" screeched the old 
 woman. " What's the world comin' to when fools mar- 
 ry ? Oh, Lord, Lord !" 
 
 " There, there, mother," said Julius, looking up from 
 his book. His trait of straightforward seriousness mani-
 
 37 
 
 fested itself at times in a dignified sonority of voice 
 which would have been impressive from the public plat- 
 form. Emma noticed how the mother was unconscious- 
 ly controlled by its intonation of calm authority, and 
 changed the subject of conversation immediately. 
 
 " Queer 't ye should jes' start out permisc'us that 
 way fer the mountains," she said to Emma. " Most 
 gals 'ud a-been afeerd." 
 
 " I wa'n't afeerd," was the soft answer. " I was 
 glad!" 
 
 " Glad to be alone in the mountains !" murmured 
 Mrs. Irish, gazing incredulously around the family 
 group. " Well, I'll be flomcoddled ! Glad to be alone 
 in the " 
 
 A suddenly suffused look thrilled the stranger's feat- 
 ures with something like an ecstatic pain. 
 
 " Ye'd understan' it if if ye knowed," she said. 
 She was clasping and unclasping her hands nervously. 
 " I reckon I'm dif'rent from most wimmin," she went 
 on, to bridge over the strained silence. She had a 
 shrinking sense of Julius's piercing eyes staring at her 
 from above his book, and his stiff, dark brows meeting 
 in a downward point above his nose. 
 
 " Ye must a-been in some queer sort o' scrape," vent- 
 ured the old woman. 
 
 Emma Webster was silent. 
 
 " Well, my own experience o' scrapes is 't they make 
 me keep my eyes open arterwards. A man 't 's been 
 drownded won't try the river a secon' time. But " here 
 the old woman's curiosity got the better of her philoso- 
 phy " where on airth 'd ye come from' fust, anyway ?" 
 
 Emma Webster answered, promptly :
 
 " From Illinoy." 
 
 "She's lyin' ag'in," thought Mrs. Irish. But aloud 
 she said, "We're from Illinoy ourselves down Tich- 
 borne way. Where be you from ?" 
 
 " Jacksonville." 
 
 " Never heerd o' Jacksonville. 'D you, Zury ?" 
 
 " It's a new town," said the stranger, in a fluttered 
 voice. 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 Mrs. Irish was silent again, peering out from beneath 
 her beetling brows. " Still lyin'," she was thinking. 
 Ordinarily, silence in the face of such an opportunity 
 would have been impossible ; she would have flung her 
 suspicions into arguments, rebukes, open accusations. 
 Bat with this stranger it was different. She looked so 
 quiet, so gentle and so weary. Besides, the old woman 
 did not dare to face the conjectural results of express- 
 ing her doubts. The girl might go, and then what would 
 become of them all ? These conflicting emotions settled 
 into a futile criticism, and she remained silent, thinking. 
 
 " I reckon some trouble must a-druv ye 'way from 
 home," she remarked, after a while. 
 
 " Yes," was the only answer. 
 
 She was fishing in barren waters, She realized the 
 fact with a helpless surprise. But she decided on her 
 course immediately. 
 
 " Ye hear that, 'Biathar ? They ain't to be no pokin' 
 V pryin' into Emmy Webster's bizness while she stays 
 on this 'ere ranch ! No matter what fetched 'er here, 
 she's here ; V I'm goin' to stan' up fer 'er, 'n' anybody 
 't goes to worryih' 'er '11 have to do with me. 'N' Zury, 
 ye're not to git funny 'n' go to 'cusin' 'er o' runnin' away
 
 from some feller, or anything o' that sort. Ye're to 
 keep yer wooden-legged wit to yerself, 'n' then nobody 
 Ml see how it limps ; 'n' if it tumbles down, nobody '11 
 be hurt by it. We all have our troubles," she contin- 
 ued. " Look at Zury 'n' 'Biathar, 'n' try to think o' the 
 life I've led ! Troubles ! I should think so. They ain't 
 nothin else sure in this world excep' the taxes ; oh, ye 
 kin allus reckon on troubles they're allus here !" 
 
 " The Lord sends 'em," replied the stranger, prophetic 
 subtleties of faith lighting up her saddened eyes. 
 
 " I dunno who sends 'em," was the grim rejoinder. 
 " But I do know the world's full o' 'em ; 'n' if / had 
 charge o' matters, they'd be some tall house-cleanin' I 
 kin tell ye that ! Well, 'tain't no good to waste stren'th 
 a whinin', no ways. I reckon ye'd ruther not talk over 
 yer troubles 'fore strangers, hey ?" 
 
 Emma Webster looked up with a sweet and grateful 
 light in her blue eyes. 
 
 " If ye'd be willin' " she began. 
 
 " Ye hear that, 'Biathar ? Ye're not to tell every cow- 
 puncher on the range 't she happened to come to us 
 kinder cur'ous-like though I make no doubt ye'll go 
 a - rattletrappin' it all over the Rocky Mountains till 
 Cynthy Beanston hears it, 'n' she'll go a-squallin' 'n' 
 bellerin' it up 'n' down every gulch 'n' foot-hill in fifty 
 mile. As fer Julius, he knows how to behave hisself 
 'thout bein' told. He takes arter the Robertsons. I 
 was a Robertson," she added, in explanation to the 
 stranger. 
 
 " I'm sure I'll like it 'ere," said the latter. " I'll try 
 to do my duty. I want to do what's right. 'N' I ain't 
 afcerd o' work."
 
 40 
 
 That's the kind o' talk !" cried Mrs. Irish, approv- 
 ingly. " Ye'll have time 'nough to lay idle when ye git 
 old 'n' doubled up with rheumatics. But I know ye're 
 tired 'n' want to go to bed. What time is it, Julius ?" 
 
 " Quarter past nine," was the answer from behind the 
 book. 
 
 " Too fast," declared the old woman. " Julius 's got 
 a watch 't makes time fly. But it's time fer bed, any- 
 way. I don't go to bed 't all these days I set up in 
 this 'ere chair 'n' sleep when I kin, 'n' jaw away to my- 
 self when I can't. 'Biathar, quit yer toodlin' 'n' tippin' 
 aroun' the cubbard there, 'n' git a fresh candle fer 
 Emmy. I hope ye won't mind settin' it in a teacup we 
 ain't got but one candlestick to our backs, 'n' we have 
 to git along with any sort o' contraption 't comes handy. 
 Ye mus' try not to git disgusted with 'Biathar he's allus 
 smirkin' 'n' smewkin' at the gals. There, that's right! 
 knock down yer hat off 'm the nail, 'n' tromple all over 
 it. Oh, ye're yer mother's beauty you are ! 'D ye 
 ever see sech sized hats 's what that boy gits ? big 
 'nough to bury 'im in, 'n' plenty o' room left over. Look 
 at 'im! don't he look jest 'bout 's knowin' 's a sow-bug 
 under a board? If I was well 'n' he was smaller, 
 wouldn't I wallicks 'im ? There Julius, you show 'er 
 the way. If the bed ain't made up, 'tain't my fault. 
 Now go to bed, 'n' don't let 'Biathar's actions give ye 
 the nightmare !" 
 
 " How early shall I git up ?" inquired Emma Web- 
 ster. 
 
 " Oh, I'll yell fer ye when it's time. I'm allus awake," 
 replied the grim old woman. 
 
 " If ye want anything in the night, be sure 'n' call me.
 
 41 
 
 I'd be glad to git up V wait on ye. It seems so good 
 to have a home !" 
 
 The old woman's face quivered with some unwonted 
 emotion. 
 
 " 'Biathar," she cried, ''don't stan' there a-gawkin' 
 with yer under-jaw hangin' down to yer hips spread 
 out the wick o' the candle so 't a body can see the blaze. 
 Thankee. I don't gen'rally need nothin' Julius sets the 
 campfire V a cup o* water on a chair next me, V I kin 
 help myself. Now, Julius, go on. Good-night !" 
 
 Emma Webster returned her greeting, and followed 
 Julius through a dusty little room Mrs. Irish's parlor 
 containing a braided mat, two or three battered chairs, 
 and a table with a turkey-red cover. From this opened 
 the room which had been assigned to her use. 
 
 Julius set down the teacup and candle on a nail-keg 
 inside the door. 
 
 " I hope ye'll like mother/' he said, with his soft, de- 
 liberate drawl. " I never seen 'er so took with a stranger 
 afore. 'N' ye mus' try not to mind 'er jawin'. She's 
 had a" hard life, mother has, V she's been too much 
 'thout wimmin. Ye'll do *er a power o' good if ye can 
 like 'er 'n' not mind 'er snappy ways." 
 
 Emma met his smile with a placid gentleness. 
 
 " I sha'n't mind 'er scolding the least bit," she said. 
 " What I want 's a home ; if I'm sure o' that, nothin' 
 can trouble me." 
 
 " We'll be good to ye," said Julius, with that digni- 
 fied seriousness which had impressed her from the first. 
 " Good-night !" 
 
 " Good-night," she answered. And he was gone. 
 
 lie went back to the Cottage Encyclopedia, and tried
 
 to interest himself in the colorless wording of the text. 
 lie read that gum-arabic comes from the sont or acantha- 
 tree. Would her eyes look darker after a good night's 
 rest, and would the tremulous tendency about her mouth 
 express a more settled obedience to her will ? It is also 
 produced by the seyal-tree, and large quantities of it are 
 exported from Egypt. At this point Julius gave him- 
 self a surprised glance of introspection ; then laid aside 
 the book deliberately, and went to bed. 
 
 His kindly, masterful face had left an impression on 
 Emma Webster's thoughts as of something which would 
 influence her immediate future. There is a sort of 
 strength which involuntarily projects itself beyond the 
 narrow horizon of self, and makes a climate of con- 
 fidence and ease for less masterful souls. " He can 
 help me, if I need it," she thought, with an irresistible 
 joy. 
 
 The feeling gave her a momentary pang. " I ortn't to 
 be happy I orter be bowed down with the thort o' what 
 brought me here. But I can't I can't be to-night. 'N' 
 ain't it a sign 't God has fergive me, the way He's took 
 care o' me all the way 'long?" 
 
 She went to the window and looked out at the moun- 
 tains and the solemn stars. A bank of white cloud lay 
 inertly along the ridge ; the pines gave forth an inter- 
 mittent song. The light was like sunshine dimmed by 
 smoky windows ; the white peaks looked big with mys- 
 tery, like Time's scroll rolled up. 
 
 " God has been good to me this day," she said, still 
 gazing. " What more could I ask 'n this ? Let me be 
 thankful let me be truly thankful, O Lord !" 
 
 She untied her bundle, and drew out a little worn Bible
 
 43 
 
 with a tarnished brass clasp. Opening at random in the 
 Psalms, she read : 
 
 " ' I waited patiently for the Lord ; and he inclined 
 unto me and heard my cry. 
 
 " He brought me up also out of a horrible pit, out of 
 the miry clay, and set my feet upon a rock, and estab- 
 lished my goings. 
 
 " ' And he hath put a new song into mv mouth, even 
 praise unto our God. . . . 
 
 "'I am poor and needy ; yet the Lord thinketh upon 
 me : thou art my help and my deliverer ; make no tarry- 
 ing, O my God.' " 
 
 She turned to her bed with a smiling weariness. 
 
 " I am in His hands reely reely !" she said, aloud. 
 " He keers fer me, He has not fersaken me, fer all my 
 sin !" 
 
 She knelt, bowing her head upon her hands against 
 the bed. Then she crept in between the coarse cover- 
 ings with a sigh of utter rest. How pleasantly the dark- 
 ness filled the room ! so soothing, so comforting, so 
 safe. She turned so that she faced the window and the 
 big, pure stars. " They arc the lights of the distant city 
 of my God," was her last thought ; and the night closed 
 her tired eyes as tenderly as if for the grave.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 EMMA WEBSTER awoke before daybreak, and lay a 
 long time gazing out into the thick, motionless air. It 
 looked like a gray solid thrust up against the window. 
 
 " It's actual clouds," she said to herself. " How queer 
 't I should be layin' a-bed in the Rocky Mountains among 
 the clouds !" 
 
 There were mysterious sounds abroad sounds so 
 faint that they seemed to originate in her own strained 
 sense of hearing. Soft murmurs, condensing from the 
 air like dew ; remote sighs and whispers ; plaintive mi- 
 nor harmonies, like the incantations of restless spirits. 
 It was as if the rocks and the trees and the clouds were 
 talking together. 
 
 She lay back, closing her eyes with a vacant enjoy- 
 ment. " My work 'n' care shall be fer these people here- 
 after," she thought. " I b'long to 'em, fer they found 
 me." Her thoughts wandered vaguely. She remembered 
 long-forgotten sentences, meaningless words. Suddenly 
 a passage from the, Old Testament came into her mind : 
 " All that are able to go forth to war in Israel." She 
 seized upon it, and repeated it with joy. " It means 't 
 my work is here, 't I've found what the Lord wants me 
 to do !" 
 
 She opened her eyes. The light had grown till now 
 she could see the ghostly companies of clouds standing 
 motionless in line along the foot-hills. They looked
 
 hard, inelastic, presenting unfrayed edges to the slopes. 
 The air lay passive, as if under a weight ; the world 
 looked chilly and stiff after its long night's sleep. The 
 invsterious sounds in the upper airhad ceased, but the 
 silence stirred in the gulches, whence rose the noise of 
 shouting waters and the harmonious sibilance of spray 
 tossed high against impeding rocks. As an overtone to 
 this wild symphony could be heard the tinkling of the 
 fountain, overflowing its basin back of the house, and 
 dancing unseen past the window with a childish babble 
 of inconsequent sound. 
 
 The light increased, breaking up against the mists in 
 billows of dull gray. The clouds projected here and 
 there in faint high-lights, or receded in irregular con- 
 caves of gray gloom. Emma rose and looked out. The 
 surroundings of the house were dimly visible a vacant 
 stretch of adobe on a hill, sloping up to a background of 
 slippery gray rocks. A few dwarf sunflowers grew along 
 the slope, pitiful in their meagre yellow and brown, but 
 sweet in their intent to make the gray soil brighter. The 
 lowing of a heifer in one of the thatched sheds awoke 
 sluggish echoes from the gulches. The pines tuned 
 their strings timidly for a time ; then, gaining confidence, 
 burst into a slow, mighty chant of praise. Surely this 
 was something more than the wind among the pines, 
 this heavenward rush of harmony, this long-drawn lyric 
 wail from the heights it was the soul of Milton, re- 
 turned to brood in music over the world. The sympho- 
 ny swelled, died away, drew out Memnon-like echoes from 
 the rocks, fluttered and revived in intermingling throbs 
 and murmurs. 
 
 The sunflowers stirred uneasily, feeling the near pres-
 
 46 
 
 ence of the day. The sounds from the gulches grew 
 hurried and eager, shaking the air with a rhythmic fury 
 and radiating sentient tremors through the shadows. 
 The world seemed on the point of stirring and opening 
 its eves ; the mists thinned out as if to leave its gaze un- 
 hindered. It was a moment of mystery, of suspension ; 
 the creative Idea was growing and unfolding in this up- 
 per chaos. Would it really take form so that the human 
 sense could grasp it ? One felt it beyond the mist there, 
 something sublime, mighty, permanent, altogether differ- 
 ent from the chance-evoked visions of the imagination. 
 But the clouds, thinning out, revealed only the size of 
 near things the thatched sheds, the corral with its 
 snubbing-post, the spring pouring its babbling waters 
 down the rocks. 
 
 The sunrise crept into the mists with red quiverings, 
 luminous thrills. The clouds shrank farther back ; they 
 moved upward, dragging close to the rocks, like a huge 
 weighted- curtain ; then an expanding wind came up 
 from the river valley ; it passed the house with a musi- 
 cal rush. The clouds rolled still upward ; they lapped 
 the foot-hills in sluggish surges, and finally ebbed in a 
 shallow pink ripple. Then the Idea was made visible in 
 the sunshine which struck lance-like across the world: 
 the mountains, awful in their magnitude and simplicity, 
 white as death, stern as conscience. Emma Webster 
 gazed up at them with a high, religious awe. 
 
 She understood them at once. Her soul went out to 
 them in an all-embracing mood of reverence. They were 
 the earthly expression of God's grandeur and power the 
 material into which He had crystallized His thoughts so 
 as to be understood of men.
 
 47 
 
 She knelt and prayed. She did not close her eyes 
 there were no trifling things to be shut out but fixed 
 her gaze upon the mountains. In their immemorial calm, 
 they too seemed engaged in silent prayer ; in their prox- 
 imity to heaven, they were like the archangels, the friends 
 and companions of God. One cannot connect the idea 
 of time with them ; the ages have left no more trace on 
 them than autumn leaves which fall and are blown away. 
 They have the look of self-existence, of eternity about 
 them. 
 
 Emma Webster stood up, strong and joyous in the as- 
 surance of God's loving-kindness all about her. What- 
 ever this woman's life had been, her religion was no mere 
 drowsy stirring of the blood, no half-hearted, conditional 
 faith, no haggling across the counter of Infinity for the 
 good things of life ; but a silent confidence in the crea- 
 tive goodness, as certain as the sweet, secure sense of a 
 cloudless sky above her head a meek, filial obedience, un- 
 marked in its development like the passing of time, yet 
 including the whole divine mystery of spiritual growth. 
 God was her father, loving even while He chastened fyer ; 
 and her answering love was perfect a veritable " offer- 
 ing made by fire." 
 
 She worked hard that day. Abiathar and his mother 
 puzzled her. She frequently gazed at them in doubt. 
 But whenever she passed the window, she looked out at 
 the mountains. They reassured her. They were wrapped 
 in none of that mysterious gloom in which living souls 
 are hidden ; the changes which crossed them were free 
 from the doubts engendered by changes in human feat- 
 ures. 
 
 She forgot herself in her tasks. The world seemed
 
 48 
 
 docile and friendly; her future lay plainly before her, no 
 longer a destiny ruled by unrulable forces. " It is all 
 good, all for the best," was her constant thought. 
 
 While the clothes were boiling in the huge brass kettle 
 she made preparations for the baking. 
 
 " If ye was to put 's much risin' in 's what ye do back 
 there in Illinoy, ye'd have every stone blowed out o' the 
 oven when ye come to bake it," proclaimed the old wom- 
 an from her chair. 
 
 Emma looked up in wonder from her task of measur- 
 ing the flour. 
 
 " Oh, they ain't no reason to it," said the old woman, 
 anticipating her question. " It's all o' a piece with the 
 nat'ral-born cussedness o' the country. Ye never kin tell 
 what things is goin' to do in Collyraydo I've seen a hull 
 mountain-side jes' nachelly git up 'n' walk off 'thout say- 
 in' a word to nobody I have, sure 's shootin'. Oh, they 
 ain't nothin' on airth more active 'n the Rocky Mountains 
 when they wunst git started. Down b'low Donhaly City 
 the passengers has to git out 'n' shovel Collyraydo scen- 
 ery off 'm the track 'most every time a train passes. 'N' 
 as fer the folks in this country well, I useter b'lieve 
 they wa'n't no redemption from the infernal regions, but 
 I've give up that idee long ago !" 
 
 She directed and admonished Abiathar as he brought 
 the rinsing water and helped to wring out the clothes. 
 " Snooch !" she cried. " Shagdandy ! mox ! quit lally- 
 gaggin' at Emmy 'n' jumpin' aroun' like a tin cow come, 
 slant out o' this 'n' fix the clo'es-line !" After these ob- 
 jurgatory spurts Abiathar tried to look sensible, drawing 
 down his heavy chops in acknowledgment of the moral- 
 ities with which it was supposed he was becoming inoc-
 
 ulated. As the reader will have divined, Mrs. Irish had 
 a faculty for coining words which Linnams himself might 
 have envied. She had invented an entirely new nomen- 
 clature for reprobation and blame. Emma understood it 
 with difficulty, but she watched its effect on Abiathar 
 with interest. He had a joy-compelling power of mak- 
 ing the best of circumstances such as no philosopher ever 
 possessed, and arose serene and smiling after blows which 
 would have prostrated ordinary mortals. 
 
 Julius was not at home that day. After breakfast he 
 set out in search of two steers which he had missed the 
 day before. Mr. Irish rode over to Barb Wire Ranch to 
 make a trade for the use of Beanston's mowing-machine, 
 the oats being ready for harvest in the Back Canon. 
 He expressed himself as willing to give a " yearlin' " for 
 the use of the machine. This mountain civilization 
 was as primitive in some ways as that of the Aryans, 
 where wealth was reckoned in cows, and " cows were 
 the circulating medium, with sheep and pigs for small 
 change." 
 
 A week passed. Julius was absent most of the time 
 on the range, looking after his herds. 
 
 " I'm shore I don't see what good 'tis fer 'im to work 
 so hard," complained the old woman. " He won't never 
 be wuth nothin' till he goes back to God's country 'n' 
 farms it like a Christian. If Zury 'd I ever tell ye his 
 hull name 's Zurishaddai, from the Bible? well, if he'd 
 a-stuck to bizness like what Julius has, they might be 
 some prospecks o' our endin' up our days outside o' the 
 pore-house. I've tried more 'n wunst to git Julius jes' to 
 set down 'n' let things go, but he says he has great faith in 
 hard work ! Hard work ! If that meant anything, I'd be
 
 50 
 
 rollin' in di'mon's this day, V my hair done up in a French 
 twist down to Denver. But I know 'taint no use kickin' 
 oh yes, I've lived long 'nough fer that. I 'member the 
 race-track back there to the county fair in Illinoy. Well, 
 life 's jes' like that, 'n' we're the hosses. Them pore 
 critters ! lashed on, heat arter heat ; 'n' if they failed 
 they got a kick in the ribs ; if they come out ahead, they 
 was sold to the highest bidder. 'N' it's jes' so with the 
 workin' people o' this world. Oh, I'm out o' conceit o' 
 life I've seen too much o' it. If anybody but the Lord 
 'd 'ranged it, ye'd hear a turble howlin' ; but as 'tis, 'pears 
 like everybody feels boun' to stick up 't everything 's all 
 right, 'n' it's our own fault if things ain't the way we 
 want 'em. Ye 'low I'm a wicked ole critter to talk so, 
 don't ye ? Well, I useter be a purty good Christian my- 
 self afore the Lord got down on me, 'n' even arter that 
 I useter pray 't my faith might overtop my reason ; but 
 now I think what I like, 'n' speak right up in meetin' if I 
 feel like it. 'N' if the Lord don't find it agribble, He 
 needn't listen. I don't 'pose to go a-tiptoein' through 
 life, afeerd o' disturbin' Him. He don't take me into 
 'count when He does disagribble things." 
 
 Emma Webster grew accustomed to the old woman's 
 complexly querulous nature; she even learned to over- 
 look her profanity. " She's had a hard life," was the 
 young woman's excuse, in Julius's own words. " My 
 duty's to be good t' 'er, 'n' keep still." 
 
 She found herself watching Julius with a peculiar in- 
 terest. He often addressed her in that grave, measured 
 voice which impressed her with a sense of reserved pow- 
 er, and she answered him as gravely, glad that he ap- 
 proved of her, but a trifle awed. She was somewhat
 
 51 
 
 afraid of his learning. She had stolen a look into the 
 Cottage Encyclopaedia now and then, just to see what it 
 was that interested him so, and had been impressed with 
 the uncompromising dryness of the text. Once she had 
 timidly expressed her admiration for his scholarly tastes, 
 and he had answered her in a figure of speech to the effect 
 that one can fill a cup at the well without trouble, but the 
 human mind is a different sort of vessel. 
 
 She studied him, spelling out in his features the com- 
 plicated sentences which stood for character. He had a 
 long, thin face, well colored with healthy red and tan, and 
 showing in outline a pronounced jaw, a high check-bone, 
 and a sharp, alert chin. His long nose divided into large 
 nostrils, and his stiff, dark hair had a will and purpose of 
 its own. His mild eyes looked out with a slow but ear- 
 nest appreciation of the meaning of things, and when he 
 smiled Emma felt as if he had taken her into his confi- 
 dence. The peculiarity of his smile was a slow falling 
 of the under-lip and a squaring of the corners of the 
 mouth, indicating a sort of stubborn gentleness. His 
 face had a singular power of reflecting his thoughts into 
 the minds of others. Emma found herself understand- 
 ing without words his broad, frank, silent nature. At 
 times his eyes had a look of withdrawal, and when re- 
 called, slowly assumed an expression of interest in near 
 objects. 
 
 He had thought a good deal, and his utterances had 
 the dignity of premeditation. He was not orthodox in 
 religious matters had deliberately taken his small part 
 in the struggle of human nature against theories and dog- 
 mas, and had emerged from it with a rather lofty con- 
 sciousness of the ulterior benefits of goodness, considered
 
 52 
 
 apart from the present enjoyments of a good man. He 
 had a high idea of a man's duties and of the soul's place 
 in the plan of the universe. The ideas of life and labor 
 were closely connected in his mind, and the result was a 
 man who could fight and suffer, work and conquer, with 
 a self-control of which emotional natures only dream. 
 His responsibilities were to God as manifested in man. 
 He never prayed, but in the course of a week he lived the 
 answers to a great many prayers. 
 
 In these days, when the careful and varied discipline 
 of home and school results so frequently in a pale dilu- 
 tion of man, it is interesting to notice what nature and 
 hard living do for such as Julius Irish. Perhaps the 
 time will come (since classical academies are daily turning 
 out poor scholars) when another paradox will become man- 
 ifest namely, that nature alone works out in man his 
 potential maximum of sensibility. And it may be, after 
 all, that the essential difference between an educated man 
 and an ignorant one comes to be the difference between 
 a Roman circus and Barnum's one is classical and the 
 other isn't. 
 
 Emma Webster learned to admire Julius's honesty, his 
 uprightness, his manly independence of action. She 
 even comprehended and respected his conception of God 
 as Law in distinction from her own idea of a personal 
 deity. And on his side he understood her mystic faith 
 as precisely that part of the truth required for the com- 
 pletion of her gentle womanhood. The opinions of each 
 were based on lofty human cravings, and each became re- 
 spectfully tolerant of the other's views, though more than 
 once Julius disturbed her patient trust by pushing her 
 theories to their legitimate results. His logic shocked
 
 53 
 
 her more than the old woman's profanity, for the latter 
 was the result of blindness and the former of insight. 
 
 They talked of many things. One day they were dis- 
 cussing the importance of faith in the plan of salvation. 
 Emma had been speaking in that tone of tranquil rever- 
 ence which seemed the fitting accompaniment of devout 
 thoughts, when Julius broke in abruptly : 
 
 " Yes, yes, when I find a human bein' with faith strong 
 'nough to move mountains, I won't say nothin' agin its 
 bein' strong 'nough to take a man to heaven. But till 
 then I reckon I'll have to go on doubtin'." Emma was 
 silent, grieved by the materiality of his tests. 
 
 Their acquaintance grew in these discussions. Each 
 found something to disapprove of in the opinions of the 
 other, but softened his disapprobation by considerations 
 with which opinion had little to do. 
 
 Once they were talking of the Judgment Day. 
 
 " Oh, I reckon that's a long way off," said Julius, with 
 his slow smile. 
 
 But Emma cited Scripture to prove that the end of 
 all things might come to-morrow nay, this very hour. 
 Julius still smiled. 
 
 " It took the Lord a long time to make this 'ere 
 airth," he said, glancing along the horizon at the moun- 
 tains and finally resting his eyes upon her face. " Sure- 
 ly, He'll give 's much time to the race for the betterin' 
 o' their souls 's what He give to the place for 'em to 
 live in !" 
 
 In the evening Mr. Irish smoked his pipe regularly be- 
 fore the fireplace, and accepted without comment his 
 wife's disapproval of him as an exponent of elegant leis- 
 ure. Abiathar played solitaire, and Julius, through the
 
 medium of the Cottage Encyclopaedia, travelled far in a 
 world of wonders. Mrs. Irish often glanced from him to 
 Emma with an understanding nod, as who would say, 
 " There's a Robertson f er ye he takes arter my folks !" 
 He was in truth the apple of her eye. She complained 
 only of his good qualities, on the ground that they could 
 bear no fruit in Colorado. " It's the devil 't allus comes 
 out on top in Collyraydo," was her constant refrain. 
 
 Emma Webster, too, she treated with all possible con- 
 sideration, "If I'd a-knowed ye back in Illinoy," she 
 once said, " I'd a^swore ye was a Robertson yerself. I'm 
 glad ye ain't, though," she added, with a peculiar glance 
 at Julius. 
 
 She was in constant fear that the young woman would 
 overwork herself, and she habitually brought up the sub- 
 ject at meals. 
 
 " Ye mus' be tired to death," she once said ; " ye've 
 been on the keen jump ever sence yer sot foot in the 
 house ; V yit ye go roun' smilin' to yerself like ye was 
 havin' a good time, 'Biathar, don't swiggle so when ye 
 drink. It gives me the creeps jes' to hear ye. How ye 
 manage to do it I'm shore I can't see. /couldn't a-done 
 it in my bes' days." 
 
 " I'm happy," said Emma Webster, who had learned 
 to distinguish between the conversation intended for her- 
 self and Abiathar. 
 
 The old woman stirred her black coffee meditatively. 
 
 " Well, I'm shore I'm glad o' it, though I don't see 
 why. Dad's the only happy bein' I've ever seen in these 
 parts, jest arter he's been down to Denver V loaded up, 
 or when he's a-gittin' ready to go. 'Biathar, quit yer 
 snoochin' aroun' that salt -cellar fer the Ian' sake, V
 
 55 
 
 shove me the butter. I might set 'ere with my tongue 
 a-lollin' out o' my mouth fer butter 'n' you'd never see." 
 
 " I hope Emmy '11 keep on bein' happy," said Julius, 
 with his grave, drawling utterance. His eye caught hers, 
 but her glance swerved aside, and she was conscious of a 
 certain confusion. 
 
 One day Cynthy Beanston made them a visit. She 
 came in with the stately calm of a browsing elephant, 
 and slid into a chair like a ton of coal. She had a short 
 body, long arms, and what Mrs. Irish called a waist of 
 the raw material. Her heavy, prognathous face was in 
 harmony with her teeth, which came together at an acute 
 angle. There was a fuzzy zone around her "bob" of 
 party-colored hair, showing that she had not combed it 
 throughout its entire length, but only from the parting 
 to the back of her ears. She said little or nothing, but 
 sat with her knees crossed, staring alternately at Mrs. 
 Irish and Emma as they talked, and emitting an occa- 
 sional sighing grunt of comprehension. She was the 
 target of more than one of Mrs. Irish's didactic rebukes 
 that afternoon. The old woman's tongue was sharp, and 
 she made it cut, not like a sword, but like a hatchet not 
 always in the right place, but always with the destructive 
 effect of strong purpose. Cynthy sat unmoved through 
 it all. She was as much of a philosopher as Abiathar 
 in the sense that she never made ill-treatment a basis of 
 disfavor or retaliation. 
 
 Abiathar came in for his share of notice, too. 
 
 " To think," cried the old woman, breaking in upon 
 the boy's wild efforts to impress his visitor " to think 
 how his gran'mother back there in Illinoy useter foretell 
 what a fine man he'd grow into 'n' look at 'im now ! I
 
 56 
 
 'member time V agin how she'd set by the east winder 
 overlookin' the barn V watch 'im playin' round the hay- 
 stacks. 'That blessed boy!' says she. <Jes' look at 
 'im ! They ain't 'nother sech a child in the county,' says 
 she." 
 
 " Well, ye kin bet yer life, granny knowed a good 
 thing when she seen it," declared Abiathar with assur- 
 ance, rising to the occasion. 
 
 In a short time Emma became altogether at home in 
 her new surroundings. Sometimes she would sing in a 
 voice of sweet, subdued shrillness as she went about her 
 work. It was plain that she never affected happiness, 
 that she was always sincere to her mental state ; and 
 Mrs. Irish listened and watched, absorbing something of 
 the young woman's joyous content. 
 
 Emma had a heroic simplicity of character which 
 craved nothing better than work. 
 
 " I was made fer it," she once said. " See ! my feet 
 is big V bony to carry me aroun' to my work, V my 
 han's is strong to do it when I come face to face with 
 it. My hull make-up shows what the Lord meant me 
 fer. Why should I want to rest ?" 
 
 And the old woman's face suffused with an affection- 
 ate admiration for this brave young creature's unselfish- 
 ness and buoyancy of heart. 
 
 " Some folks is happy one way 'n' some 'nother," she 
 answered, ignorant of the fact that Horace had made 
 classic a similar sentiment long ago, and that Maecenas 
 had been shocked into a fever of admiration by its orig- 
 inality. 
 
 " Emmy's biscuits ud make converts if she was to go 
 a-missionaryin'," Mr. Irish often remarked.
 
 f)7 
 
 " She's a good gal," Julius answered his mother, when 
 she fell into extravagant laudation of the girl. 
 
 "I wonder if that's all he thinks o' her," the old 
 woman meditated. But at times she fancied she dis- 
 covered new shades of meaning in his simple commen- 
 dation.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 EMMA frequently found time for a stroll down the 
 mountain-side and into the gulches. This was her regu- 
 lar substitute for Sunday church -going, and her devo- 
 tional cravings were satisfied by the silent eloquence of 
 the mountains. She carried her Bible with her, though 
 often she did not open it. She would sit with her eyes 
 fixed upon the white summits, lost in the vacant numb- 
 ness of awe, till all at once a mighty meaning flashed 
 through the world, and she saw as by inspiration. 
 
 " I am blessed in the same way as Caleb, the son of 
 Jephunneh," she often thought. " I have seen that good 
 land which the Lord God promised." 
 
 Frequently, with the deliberate purpose of dwelling 
 upon the Word, she would seek out some pine in whose 
 shade she could sit as under an awning, while the rhythm 
 of the branches sounded ceaselessly, and the water sent 
 soft echoes through the draws of the canon. And she 
 would read : 
 
 " The Lord is my shepherd ; I shall not want. He 
 maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth 
 me beside the still waters. . . . Yea, though I walk 
 through the valley of the shadow of death " 
 
 But her religious musings were too restful to be sus- 
 tained; sublime material things insisted themselves too 
 strongly. She would pause, letting the silence of calm 
 thought complete the Psalmist's mood of utter faith, and
 
 59 
 
 her eyes would wander out along the white peaks, while 
 she wondered what it would be like to stand up there 
 and trace out the new-born rivers, leaping out from their 
 icy caves into the light of the sun. 
 
 Sometimes Julius sought her out in these Sabbath 
 reveries, and they discussed the themes which interested 
 them both. She enjoyed his argumentative tone even 
 while she dreaded it. He made her reason in spite of 
 herself, though she always fell back on the ground that 
 faith is a more trustworthy faculty than reason. And 
 it came about in time that these interviews merged into 
 something more personal than an interchange of opin- 
 ions. They became tremulous suggestions of feelings 
 too ecstatic for expression occasions when a look or a 
 movement spoke a whole history of unquiet rapture. 
 The future was hidden, but this man and woman were 
 close upon it, awaiting the lifting of the curtain as if 
 they were at a play. Whatever else it might reveal, they 
 were certain of their interest in each other, and for the 
 present that was enough. 
 
 " I've often wondered," said Julius once, when they 
 were together in the canon, " what it ud be like to have 
 nothin' to do. I've heerd they's sech folks in the world 
 dad says he's seen 'em down to Denver." 
 
 "I don't b'lieve ye'd like it," said Emma. "/ 
 wouldn't." 
 
 " I'd like more time fer readin' 'n what I git. No, I 
 wouldn't want ter do jes' nothin' I couldn't live. But 
 I'd like a chance to think straight ahead, 'thout bein' 
 interrupted. I'd like to know things." 
 
 " What ud ye do with 'em arter ye knowed 'em ?" 
 
 " I'd try to use 'em I'd try to help folks. I don't
 
 reckon I could do much, but I'd like to try. It's the 
 wust thing we have to bear in this life, Emmy, 't God 
 never speaks. If Ile'd only tell us what to do only 
 hint at what's right ! But He never does. 'N' the only 
 guides we've got is our friends 'n' our own weak minds. 
 Mebbe 't wouldn't be no plainer to me even if I was wise 
 'n' knowed things, but it- ud ease me to find out fer 
 myself 't ign'rance is the end 's well as the beginnin' o' 
 wisdom." 
 
 "No; God ain't allus silent, Julius, reely. I've heerd 
 'im ; many 's the time He's spoke to me, 'n' told me what 
 to do. Religion ain't guess-work. It's the opening o' 
 the eyes upon the reel truth they ain't no mistakin' 
 what it shows ye. If ye had all the wisdom o' the 
 world, without faith in God, ye'd never be a bit surer 'n 
 ye be at this minute 'bout yer course in life. It's the 
 innard sight 't sees the innard ear 't hears. 'N' not till 
 ye git that d' ye truly know" 
 
 " I'd like to have that sort o' faith," said Julius. " But 
 my mind 's dif'rent. I've got to know things from the 
 outside. Well, no matter ! I kin do what comes to 
 hand, anyway. The wisest men has to let some things 
 go, I reckon. Only I have to let so much go. Some- 
 times it don't seem fair. But J'm more contented 
 sence you come, Emmy." 
 
 He spoke of his dissatisfaction but seldom, and the 
 confidence gave her a feeling of solemnity. " Is it true 
 't I'm a help to 'im?" she wondered. The thought 
 thrilled her strangely. 
 
 "Ye have a hard life here yerself, Emmy," he went 
 on. " Don't it sometimes come over ye 't ye'd like to go 
 away oh, ever so fur away, where they 's better things ?"
 
 (il 
 
 " They ain't nothin' better 'n workin' 'n' trustin','' she 
 answered. 
 
 "I know ye mean it," he said, looking at her with 
 slow examination. " You don't regret the time ye put 
 in a-prayin'. You don't want to make up in the dance 
 fer the time ye've lost in church. Oh ! ye'd make a 
 Christian o' me if anybody could ! But 'tain't in me " 
 
 " I kin pray fer ye " 
 
 " What's the good ? I don't b'lieve in prayer. I 
 useter pray myself 'n' I had the right feelin' behind it, 
 too. Oh, I made it the expression o' all my highest 
 longin's ain't that what a prayer orter be ? But in the 
 end I seen plain 'nough 't whatever was done I'd have 
 to do myself. No matter I won't bother ye with it. 
 But I wisht I could make things easier fer you here on 
 Cloud Mountain ye deserve the best in the world. I 
 I keer fer ye so much 't I'd like to see ye happy." 
 
 " I have the best in the world," she answered. " I 
 have a home 'n' friends. I have my soul, too 'n' what 
 more is they o' me ? 'N' God he's so near up 'ere, 
 Julius ! I could be happy on a desert island, 'pears to 
 me, if I only had a minute now 'n' then to think o' Him." 
 
 "Well, I'm glad ye've found peace, anyway," said 
 Julius, " even if I can't find it myself jest as you do. 
 Shall we go back now ? The sun's a-settin', 'n' it '11 soon 
 be milkin'-time." 
 
 And they walked back along the ridge in silence, each 
 absorbed in thought. Beyond them the sunset colored 
 anew the faded garments of the day, and let fall a splash 
 of red here and there even among the gulches. The 
 moon had already risen and was hastening up the sky, 
 divided between love for the sun and duty to the earth.
 
 03 
 
 There was a chill in the lower air, though the zenith 
 looked as warm as at mid-day. 
 
 When Julius found himself alone he experienced an 
 uncontrollable joy at having outlined his feelings to her, 
 though so imperfectly. A man is capable of that ec- 
 stasy of confession but once, and that when he first 
 hints of his passion to the woman he loves. 
 
 When his evening tasks were done he returned to the 
 house, still on air. His mother was scolding his father 
 sat taking it quietly. Had they ever loved each other ? 
 he wondered. Yes ; but like two fossil oysters in geo- 
 logical ages. A love like his for Emma could never sink 
 to that level of recrimination and indifference. lie looked 
 across at her with a great thankfulness that she was there, 
 self-evident, self-insistent, lie had been a man of clay 
 before she came God's last creation, lying inert, wait- 
 ing for the divine breath of life. 
 
 Emma liked to work in the garden in the Back Canon. 
 There the mountains lost something of their strenuous 
 majesty, the earth was more at ease ; she could absorb 
 the refreshing tranquillity of inanimate living things. 
 In the silence her faith discovered harmonies to which 
 the ear of reason is deaf, and she understood how, in 
 Eden's shade, God used to be the friend and companion 
 of man. She looked back with cold wonder to the time 
 when she had thought hopefully of death ; when it had 
 seemed a blessed thing for the heart to stop hoping and 
 fearing, wanting and working. Now it was enough to 
 move on in the clear, wholesome sunshine of every-day 
 life, conscious of the reality of God and duty. 
 
 Often Julius came down and helped her with her bas- 
 ket up the steep path to the house. Then the two
 
 sturdy figures, the manly man and the womanly woman, 
 fitted into a scene which might have represented a bit of 
 stage business, so satisfactory was it in an artistic and 
 human sense. Their relations were of the primitive sort 
 which carry weighty consequences ; it is always so when 
 a man and woman find qualities in each other to admire. 
 Yet, with all their primitiveness, the problem of their 
 lives was precisely what civilization would have made it. 
 Sociology, regardless of classes and culture, is still in 
 a state of chaos. There is no established principle of 
 classification. There are facts enough, but no connect- 
 ing laws. The science will some day find its Cuvier, 
 and till then we must go on wondering at the resem- 
 blances between the lofty and the lowly, who at first 
 sight seem associated in this world only for the purposes 
 of contrast. 
 
 Emma did not need Julius's help with the big basket, 
 but it was good to feel his strong, kindly presence near 
 her. She watched the swing of his firm, square shoul- 
 ders with admiring wonder. " He might a-been one o' 
 the heads o' thousands in Israel," she often thought. 
 She had other pictures of him in her mind, too when 
 he reproved his father's gay good-humor by his own 
 grave thoughtfulness, or soothed his mother's exagger- 
 ated irritability, or strengthened Abiathar's flaccid irre- 
 sponsibility into something like an appreciation of the 
 hard exactions of life. He was the first real man of her 
 experience ; his silent strength impressed her as some- 
 thing great and noble ; his modesty seemed to her but 
 little below genius. She liked to have him feel that 
 she understood him, sympathized with him; for always 
 she recognized in him the spiritual hunger of unsatisfied
 
 (54 
 
 effort, the poverty of one whose ambitions had never 
 been attained. 
 
 And now it was late in summer. The aspens had- 
 turned yellow on the higher levels, and the mists lay in 
 heavy purple glooms along the foot-hills. Summer de- 
 parted slowly, and was most gracious in her going. The 
 cottonwoods were still green in the gulches, and the 
 mists, just as in midsummer, rose white above the 
 ridges, turned violet, and descended in showers. There 
 were still flowers and sunlight, and the world was full of 
 pleasant noises. 
 
 One day Emma Webster had been gathering raspber- 
 ries from the low bushes on the mountain-side, and, after 
 filling her pail, had sat down to rest. The curled green 
 feathers of the ground-pine made a soft carpet for her 
 feet, and there were pine - cones and acorns scattered 
 about. The sun was just touching a great white summit 
 in the west. It was as if the mountain were holding a 
 torch aloft. She watched it with awed content. 
 
 Then Julius came zigzag down the steep path among 
 the pines. She watched him, now in sunshine, now in 
 shadow, loosening a stone here and there and sending it 
 rolling to the very edge of the stream below. Now she 
 lost sight of him behind some rocks where she knew a 
 tiny spring welled forth and thick club - mosses grew ; 
 now he came into view again, spreading his great fig- 
 ure in strides which would have been possible only to 
 a mountaineer. His arms were full of late wild-flow- 
 ers bluish - purple clematis, scarlet gilias, yellow cliff- 
 roses, pale alpine blossoms from the higher levels of 
 the hills. 
 
 " Mother tole me ye was down 'ere," he said, as he
 
 gained her side. " See what I've fetched fer ye !" And 
 he spread the flowers in her lap. 
 
 She laid her hands upon them, fondling them as if 
 they were sentient things. Her pleased smile brought a 
 sympathetic flush into his sunburned cheek. 
 
 " Thankee," she said. " How purty !" and she held 
 off a stem of gilias to get the full effect. 
 
 " Yes, I like 'em myself," he said, taking a seat at her 
 side. " The bears useter come 'ere fer berries 'd ye 
 know they was powerful fond o' 'em, V could pick 'em 
 's neat 's human bein's ? I shot my fust 'nn down there 
 by that log o' driftwood near the crick. It was arter a 
 wet mornin', 'n' the sun 'd come out, 'n' jes' 's I was 
 creepin' through the bresh beyend that blasted pine, I 
 seen 'im, settin' up on 'is haunches 's solemn 's a graven 
 image. Well ! if ye could know how a feller's breath 
 comes, how his blood tingles, when he feels a good gun 
 in his hand 'n' has a mark like that afore 'im !" Here 
 the hunter's eye lit up with reminiscent enthusiasm. " I 
 pulled up my gun 'n' fetched 'im, fust off. Lord ! what 
 a feller he was ! He never even granted. I can see 
 'im turnin' over even now. 'N' wa'n't I proud ? Dad 
 bought me a new sombrero with silver cord, 'n' we salted 
 the meat fer winter. But they're all killed off now. I 
 ain't seen one in these parts fer more 'n two year." 
 
 They talked while she massed the flowers into a 
 bouquet. " I'm glad ye brought 'em," she said. " I'll 
 put 'em over the fireplace, where yer mother can see 'em. 
 Queer how the flowers 't bloom so early in the gulches 
 has to wait till late summer to come out on the foot- 
 hills !" 
 
 " Ye might put some o' 'em in yer hair," remarked 
 
 6
 
 66 
 
 Julius. "Them blue vetches ud look purty agin yer 
 light braid. Let me do it." 
 
 But her hands relaxed among the tangled stems, and she 
 drew back. Her eyes met his with a dawning change. 
 
 " No," she answered, coldly. 
 
 "No? Why not?" 
 
 " I don't like moist things agin my hair." 
 
 " Moist? How kin ye call 'em so ' 
 
 " Anyways, they're better in a bokay." 
 
 He was repulsed, but he would not be cast down. He 
 found a buoyant consolation for his rebuff in the flush 
 his offer had called into her pale cheek. He easily 
 turned the conversation to religion, and was startled into 
 new admiration by the innocent security of her trust, by 
 the earnestness with which she threw her woman's feel- 
 ings into her beliefs, and by the simple faith where intui- 
 tion reigned supreme. 
 
 '* No," said Julius, in pursuance of the theme on 
 which they had started. " They ain't no sense in pur- 
 tendin' to b'lieve 't repentance is all 't 's ne'sary to git to 
 heaven. Kin a few tears atone fer the wrong-doin' o' a 
 lifetime ? Kin I weep myself into everlastin' bliss arter 
 murderin' my nearest relation ? Kin I " 
 
 He was startled by a cry from his companion. She 
 rose hastily and started up the path. He followed. He 
 forgot the flowers, until, as they were crossing the arid 
 hill, she gathered a handful of wild sunflowers, and on 
 entering the house stuck them up against the chimney. 
 He accounted for the action at his leisure and in his 
 own way. 
 
 He had never been in love before, but as time went 
 on he found it difficult to preserve the conservative atti-
 
 f,7 
 
 tude of limited experience, even before his own imagi- 
 nation. He had material enough in him for a dozen 
 grand passions; seeing Emma Webster every day gave 
 him a scope of assurance which might have resulted 
 from having loved many women and all of them good. 
 In spite of considerable thinking, his life till now had 
 been mostly physical ; it had meant little more than the 
 work his body was able to perform, the moods which 
 were the effect of growth, waste, and repair ; but all the 
 time the seeds of passion had been quiescent within, re- 
 quiring only favorable circumstances to germinate sud- 
 denly and luxuriantly. And now life took on new mean- 
 ings, settled itself in the foreground of new perspectives. 
 Love, in his thoughts, became all at once the regulator of 
 the universe the law through which opposing impulses 
 harmonize and work together in friendly unison. He 
 saw in it the force which binds the most insignificant 
 atom to the infinite God who made it. He understood 
 for the first time the meaning of the trite phrase, " God 
 is love." In becoming a lover, he had become a philoso- 
 pher, too. 
 
 He compared Emma Webster with all the women he 
 had ever met, and decided that there were none like her. 
 He worshipped her with affectionate awe which might 
 easily have broken forth into importunate claims. She 
 was too good for him, he knew ; and perhaps that was 
 why every nerve in his body demanded her as the fitting 
 completion of his life. But after that day when he had 
 brought her the flowers, she held herself more and more 
 aloof. Her appealing eyes kept him at a distance. Did 
 she dread him? was she repelled by him? He felt that 
 he must know the truth. Submission to the silence im-
 
 posed by her glance was a pleasure, but of a negative 
 sort such as a man derives from trying to make himself 
 believe that he is pleased. Julius required something 
 more directly in the line of vigorous understanding. He 
 could not sit down in silence, foreclosed of what he most 
 desired. He must have all or nothing, and he must 
 have it by definite confession. 
 
 As the days passed, the grim determination grew upon 
 him to force his love upon her, cost what it might. He 
 awaited his opportunity, and at last it came. 
 
 " Emmy !" he called after her one morning before 
 breakfast, as she started to the spring for a pail of water. 
 
 She did not turn or answer, though he saw her start as 
 if she heard. 
 
 He repeated her name, hurrying after her eagerly. 
 She was at the spring now, bending to dip the pail into 
 the pellucid hollow sphere among the rocks. The bowl- 
 ders rose in mottled blackness beyond her; the water 
 went pirouetting away in silver circles at her feet ; the 
 music of the pines seemed to float on the tone of the 
 hoarse water in the gulch. 
 
 " Emmy !" he repeated in a louder voice. She looked 
 over her shoulder at him as she bent above the spring. 
 " Why didn't ye send me fer the water ?" he asked 
 " me, or 'Biathar ?" 
 
 Her face flushed as she answered : 
 
 " Oh, I could come jes' 's well." She had forgotten 
 her pail, and had set it down half filled upon a rock. 
 The air was chilly, the mists still clung about the pines. 
 There were mournful sounds in the gulches, as if the 
 ghost of night down there were mourning the vanished 
 glory of the stars.
 
 "Be ye in a hurry?" Julius asked. He felt his lips 
 quivering eagerly with what he had followed her to say. 
 
 " Hurry ?" she repeated. " They 's allus plenty to 
 do." 
 
 " But ye kin stop a bit " 
 
 " No no, the breakfast mus' be got " She made 
 a mechanical movement towards the pail. 
 
 " Never mind the water," he said, his self-control in- 
 creasing as he saw that she was losing hers. " I'll dip 
 it up 'n' kerry it in. Set down there on the rock 'n' 
 let's talk." 
 
 " Talk ? oh, why ?" she expostulated. 
 
 " Ye'll see why, arter I git through. The breakfast 
 kin wait. None o' us is goin' out on the range this 
 mornin', 'n' 'twon't matter if we ain't 's early 's usu'l." 
 
 " No no ; I mus' go in !" 
 
 But he motioned her back with an arm that struck out 
 straight from the shoulder and suggested fight. She 
 stared at him a moment in dumb pleading, then obeyed. 
 
 " They 's a dozen things waitin' to be done," she said, 
 in a faint voice. She drew a wreath of clematis down 
 from the rocks, and began to pluck nervously at the 
 ragged leaves. 
 
 " Let 'em wait," frowned Julius. " They kin stan' it 
 better 'n what I kin. It's broke me all up this 'ere 
 thing o' beatin' 'round the bush the way we've been 
 doin'. It ain't fair it ain't straight. Why can't we 
 look each other square in the face 'n' say what we've 
 got to say, 'thout shyin' off 'n' rnakin' b'lieve everything 
 's all right ?" 
 
 " I'm shore I've allus said all 't I had to say." 
 
 " Well, /ain't, then ! I've had heaps to say 't I hain't
 
 TO 
 
 spoke a word of heaps to say 't I can't never say, fer 
 words is too little fer sech idees. Ye know what I mean ? 
 I've been crazy-like ever sence that day I found ye 
 down in the berry-patch. 'N' I won't be put off no 
 longer." 
 
 She smiled at him tremulously, even while she made 
 a helpless little movement as if to quell her heart-beats. 
 
 " I I didn't reelize 't my talk was so important, or 
 I'd a-give ye more o' it," she said. She knew he would 
 contradict her, and she looked patient of contradiction 
 beforehand. 
 
 " It is it is ! It means more to me 'n all the Bible 
 talk ye could scrape together. It means " 
 
 " Don't be profane," she murmured. 
 
 " 'N' don't you be contrairy ! Ye have been contrairy 
 ye know ye have. 'N' now I want ye to stop it. My 
 turn 's come, 'n' I mean to run things my own way if 
 I have anything to say, I'm a-goin' to say it. I want to 
 know why ye never look at me no more never sence 
 that day when ye flung away my posies !" 
 
 " Never look at ye ?" 
 
 " Ye know ye never do !" 
 
 Her air was calmer now, but he knew she felt more 
 agitation than she showed, as she went on stripping the 
 leaves from the spray of clematis and tossing them from 
 her. 
 
 " It seems to me I'm allus lookin' at ye," she said, 
 turning away her face. 
 
 The answer pleased him, and he smiled. 
 
 " Ye mus' do it behind my back, then ! Oh yes ye 
 kind o' look aroun' the edges o' me I've seen ye doin' 
 that, but ye never let me ketch yer eye. Say ! be I so
 
 71 
 
 orfle humbly 't ye can't bear to look straight at me ? 
 D' ye hate the sight o' me 's bad 's that ?" 
 
 " I d' know why a man should want to be purty," she 
 retorted, with unexpected spirit. 
 
 He ignored the sally, aware that she intended to divert 
 him from the real subject in hand. 
 
 " I'd like to see the color o' yer eyes wunst in a while ! 
 Two folks has got to look straight at each other if they 
 want to be friends. They's suthin' in friendship 't re- 
 quires it. Say ! we be friends, be'ent we ?" His heavy 
 chest tones were becoming masterful again. 
 
 " I'm shore I ain't aimed to be unfriendly," she hesi- 
 tated. 
 
 " The trouble is, ye ain't been friendly 'nough. Now, 
 I'd like to be fust-rate friends. Why can't we be? 
 We've got it in us to like each other. We be friends, 
 be'ent we ?" 
 
 " Yes." She admitted it willingly enough ; but even 
 had she tried to resist, she knew she would have been 
 overborne by this strong, victorious soul, whose very 
 presence implied subjection. It gave her a sweet, dis- 
 trustful pleasure that he should insist on a formal decla- 
 ration of friendship ; he had often seemed inaccessible 
 to any satisfactions except those which are evidences of 
 known laws, and his strength had appeared as widely 
 removed from her timorous joys as if he were a being 
 of another sphere. Something like gratitude sprang up 
 in her at the assurance of his need of her ; but back of 
 this new feeling was one of older growth which she had 
 tried to hide even from herself. She had not succeeded; 
 the truth had whispered itself all about her when she 
 was alonc-i-had insisted on making itself heard and rec-
 
 72 
 
 ognized. She loved him the emotion was so plain to 
 her that she could not conceive his total ignorance of 
 what she tried to conceal. And this effort at conceal- 
 ment was not wholly one of womanly modesty; it was 
 a struggle in which conscience and inclination came to- 
 gether like wind and wave. She knew too well that it 
 would be a wrong to Julius, a wrong to her own higher 
 nature, to accept her happiness at his hands. Love, that 
 sublime production of ignorance, insists too often on 
 complete knowledge; and if Julius were to know the 
 whole truth, his feeling for her would be no longer love, 
 but hatred and horror and scorn. 
 
 " Fust-rate friends ?" he insisted. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Better friends 'n ye've ever been with anybody 
 afore ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " But ye take it so quiet if ye only felt it like I do, 
 Emmy ! To me it's a wonderful thing tojoiow 't ye keer 
 fer me a little. The idee has made the world over! 
 Why, things is so dif'rent sence " 
 
 " Dif'rent ?" she questioned. 
 
 " Because you're here. That 'counts for everything ! 
 Afore ye come but I won't try to tell how things was. 
 What's the good o' 'memb'rin' ? It's gone it '11 never 
 come back ! 'N' if we're friends reely friends, I mean 
 say, d 'ye know what reely bein' friends means, Emmy ?" 
 
 She did not answer. Her eyes were far away, fastened 
 upon something visible only to herself. The sun had 
 risen, and was making long blurs of gray light above the 
 gulches. Some clouds, floating high in the blue sky, car- 
 ried with them a sense of mingled joy and sorrow such as
 
 accompanies all remote, evanescent things. But she heard 
 all that Julius said ; when he stopped it was like a pause 
 in music. In his words her thoughts glided on in smooth 
 content, like a ship on a sunny sea. 
 
 " It means we must have confidence in each other 
 bear one another's joys 'n' sorrers in comp'ny. Friends 
 can't deal out confidences like the grocer down there to 
 Donhaly City deals out sugar 'n' vinegar, by pounds 'n' 
 quarts. It's all or nothin' ; friends can't be friends if 
 anything 's held back. If it wa'n't so " 
 
 U A11 or nothin' might mean more to me 'n to you," 
 she said, half bitterly. 
 
 " Jest as much ; neither more nor less. Can we be 
 good 'nough friends fer that? 'Ud ye be willin' " 
 
 " No. 'Tain't no use to make b'lieve. I kin never do 
 that. I sha'n't try." 
 
 His face fell, but he had his eyes upon her, and his 
 voice became more tender. 
 
 " Now ye're mad at me," he said, in gentle reproach. 
 
 " Mad ? no. I'm only speakin' plain. 'Tain't no harder 
 fer ye to hear it 'n fer me to say it, I reckon. Let me go in !" 
 
 " Be ye sure ye ain't mad sure ?" he asked, earnestly. 
 His masterful air had disappeared, and he was pleading 
 with her. 
 
 " Sure," was the grave answer. 
 
 " Tell me one thing. Was ye ever mad at me ?" 
 
 " Never !" The answer was all ready, and came with 
 decision. 
 
 " Not even that day down in the berry-patch ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Then why 'd ye throw my posies away ? I fetched 
 'em clean down from the Bashan Hills."
 
 74 
 
 She looked down at the clematis, which was receiving 
 a thorough crushing at her hands. 
 
 " I wasn't mad at ye," she repeated. 
 
 " Ye didn't want me to put 'em in yer hair ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " 'N' yet ye wa'n't mad ?" 
 
 No." 
 
 " Well, gals is queer ! But tell me tell me why !" 
 
 " I I can't, Julius !" 
 
 The appeal of her voice touched him, but he went on : 
 
 " Ye reckoned I meant suthin' more 'n friendship ?" 
 
 She did not answer this. Her eyes closed against his 
 for an instant, and when she opened them it was to fix 
 them on the rivulet, beating its way down among the 
 foam-fringed rocks. 
 
 He examined her gravely, reading her answer in her 
 silence. 
 
 "Well, ye kin tell me one thing, anyway have ye 
 been afeerd ever sence 't I might go on in the same 
 way, doin' things ye didn't like?" 
 
 " I wanted ye to be more keerful," she said, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 A change passed into his fine face a look of self-up- 
 giving which his next words confirmed. 
 
 "I don't want to do nothin' to displease ye, Emmy. 
 I don't want ye to think o' me as a trouble as suthin' 
 ye'd ruther have out o' the way. I know I'm rough 'n' 
 outlandish " 
 
 " Don't talk like that !" she interrupted. " What be I ?" 
 
 " I never had no chance to be nothin' else ; but a man 
 may wear his seamy side out 'n' be smooth as the best, 
 'way in. Ye could make me better, though, if ye'd take
 
 78 
 
 a little pains with me, Emmy. I could grow more V 
 more to yer likin', if ye'd let me see jes' what ye like. 
 But I could keep out o' yer sight if I bother ye. I 
 could " 
 
 " If ye bother me !" he heard her mutter. 
 
 " I could stay out on the hills with the herds, or" 
 
 But she broke in before he had time to mention other 
 means of mitigating himself as a nuisance. 
 
 " If anybody was to leave, it 'ud be me, Julius Irish ! 
 I orter a-gone somers else with my troubles. I orter 
 never seen ye, never spoke to ye ! Yes, we be friends, 
 surely, surely. But " 
 
 "Well, but what?" 
 
 " But nothin' more. 'N' we never kin be. Don't ask 
 me why the wind might hear it, the water might blab 
 it, V then No, Julius, nothin' more never !" 
 
 She leaped to her feet, filled the pail, and almost ran 
 with it towards the house. He watched her disappear 
 with eves which uttered a whole epilogue of contradic- 
 tions. 
 
 " She don't hate me, anyway," he meditated. " Mebbe 
 I've been too fast with 'er, tryin' to make 'er keep step 
 to my music. Well they 's other times comin'. We'll 
 see what we'll see !" 
 
 He refrained with philosophical abstinence from con- 
 tinuing the conversation the next time he had a chance. 
 " I've skeered 'er," he reflected, with grave consideration 
 for her feelings. " I'll let 'er git over this round, 'n' 
 then try ag'in." It never occurred to him to give up. 
 That would have been worse than giving up life itself. 
 
 So for some time he confined his conversation to im- 
 personal themes the accident at Sunderland's Camp,
 
 70 
 
 the limited Capacity of Temple's mill to ripsaw lumber, 
 the prospects of hunting during the fall. He still dis- 
 cussed religion with her, and once justified certain pro- 
 fane remarks of his while dealing with a bucking broncho 
 by a quotation from Deuteronomy to the effect that the 
 Lord himself was once wroth and swore.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE second crop of oats had been harvested, the po- 
 tatoes were dug, the alfalfa and hay were stacked up in 
 the lowland fields. The great dugout on the hill-side 
 back of the house was full to overflowing with the treas- 
 ures of autumn : turnips and parsnips and cabbages in 
 heaps, apples and potatoes in bins and barrels, great 
 jolly pumpkins, easing their fat sides against the brown 
 mud wall. 
 
 " It's been a good year," said Mr. Irish, comfortably. 
 " We've got stored-up pervisions fer two year ye kin 
 all see fer yerselves. 'N' yit the ole woomarn ain't sat- 
 isfied. I wonder," he added, with a look of philosoph- 
 ical speculation " I wonder if the Lord foresaw how 
 much comfort He was takin' out o' the life o' man when 
 He up V done that unne'sary surgical operation on 
 Adam. No, no, He couldn't, or He'd a-let the pore 
 critter alone !" 
 
 Mrs. Irish had recovered the use of her hands. She 
 could wipe dishes and sew. This was a great comfort 
 to her. She was no longer so shrilly querulous, so stu- 
 pidly ferocious as she had been in her helplessness. She 
 was making a patchwork quilt from pieces which she 
 had brought from Illinois, but had never had time to 
 use. It was called the wild-goose chase and looked 
 like its name.
 
 7S 
 
 Sometimes she even wept a little as she thought of the 
 uselessness of her lower limbs. 
 
 "Don't mind my cryin','' she would say to Emma. 
 " Tears don't come from great depths. I'm a heap- 
 sight happier 'n I was afore I conld cry." And Emma 
 smiled understandingly. She realized that this woman's 
 life had been fuller of thorn than blossom, and a great 
 pity filled her as its spiritual poverty became more and 
 more familiar. There was a Biblical breadth of simplicity 
 in the relations of the two women which affected the 
 temperament of each for good. 
 
 "Seems queer to me," Mrs. Irish one day remarked, 
 " how 't 'Biathar ain't never been arter ye to marry 'im. 
 He's ast every gal he's seen in the las' six years." 
 
 Emma smiled faintly. 
 
 " I shouldn't wonder if the mis' able kerdoogen had ast 
 ye 'n' ye never tole me !" cried the old woman. " When 'd 
 he do it ?" 
 
 " The nex' day arter I come." 
 
 " There ! what 'd I tell ye ? The nex' day arter ye 
 come ! 'N' how 've ye kep' 'im still sence then ?" 
 
 " I'm afeerd I hain't," confessed Emma Webster. 
 
 " He's ast me three times a week, reg'lar. I'm gittin' 
 so I don't mind it now." 
 
 " Don't mind it ! He'll set ye howlin' crazy. What 
 does he say ?" 
 
 " He says he'd ruther have me in the fam'ly 'n Cynthy 
 Beanston. He says I'm a smarter gal." 
 
 " Great sufferin' ! I should think so !" breathed Mrs. 
 Irish. " 'N' what 'd ye say back ?" 
 
 " I tole 'im I didn't want to marry nobody." 
 
 " What ! be a ole maid all yer life ! It's bad 'nough
 
 79 
 
 to be married, but to live a ole maid land ! ye couldn't 
 a-meant it !" 
 
 " I reckon I'm happiest the way I be." 
 
 The old woman frowned. 
 
 " It's easier to be mis' able in comp'ny 'n all by yerself," 
 she proclaimed. 
 
 " Oh, I reckon a body don't have to be mis'able, no- 
 how," was the answer. 
 
 " Well, but never to marry think what that means ! 
 'N' a gal has sech chances here in the Rocky Mountains 
 ye don't seem to see things the way they be ! Lemme 
 tell ye, if ye expeck to find yer happiness in this 'ere 
 world, ye've got to keep yer eyes open 'n' ketch it on 
 the fly. Joy don't grow like buttercups, fer every kid 
 to pick 'n' kerry off. Ye've got to hunt fer it sneak 
 up on it agin the wind, 'n' pop it over when it ain't 
 thinkin' 'n' tote it home. Never marry ! Well !" 
 
 " 'Ud ye like me to marry 'Biathar ?" asked the young 
 woman, with a sly smile. 
 
 Mrs. Irish snorted. 
 
 "No, no! '.Zfta^a?-? Lord, no! But they's others 
 'Biathar ain't the only single man in these parts. But 
 what 'd he say when ye tole 'im ye didn't want to marry 
 nobody ?" 
 
 The question was an idle one, but it touched some 
 sensitive memory in the young woman's mind, for she 
 flushed and looked away. Mrs. Irish's sharp eyes ex- 
 amined her closely, but she did not urge the question. 
 That afternoon, however, when alone with Abiathar, she 
 began : 
 
 " So ye've been askin' Emmy Webster to marry ye, 
 have ye ? Well !"
 
 " Lor', yes," was the ready answer. " I been doin' it 
 off 'n' on fer three months now !" 
 
 " Ye managed to keep it mighty clost from yer moth- 
 er, I mus' say." 
 
 " Oh, I knowed ye'd kick that's why !" 
 
 " Now lookee 'ere ; I want this 'ere eternal kerflum- 
 midoodlin' o' your'n stopped d'ye see? Emmy Web- 
 ster '11 up 'n' strike out fer Donhaly City, fust we know. 
 Then what '11 we do ?" 
 
 " Dunno," said Abiathar, cheerfully. " 'Less ye'll let 
 me bring Cynthy over." 
 
 " Cynthy ! I'd be a corpse afore a week was out. Ye 
 don't reckon she'd marry ye, nohow, do ye ?" 
 
 " Ye bet she would 'n' jump at the chance !" 
 
 " I mean Emmy, ye silly coot !" 
 
 " Oh, Emmy ! no, I don't reckon she would. I jes' 
 keep on tryin'. 'Tain't no trouble to me." 
 
 Mrs. Irish suppressed something violent by the ques- 
 tion: 
 
 " I reckon ye're still a-koosterin' aroun' arter Cynthy 
 these days, same 's ever ?" 
 
 " I reckon I be," grinned Abiathar. 
 
 "Oh, 'Biathar, 'Biathar, she's sech a fool !" 
 
 " Well, so be I," said Abiathar in extenuation. 
 
 " 'N' she's sech a everlastin' chuggy critter !" 
 
 " Yes," Abiathar admitted, " Cynthy's fat 's 'er biggest 
 p'int." 
 
 " She ain't 'Biathar, she ain't got the sense 't God 
 gives geese !" 
 
 " But she thinks I'm a turble feller !" 
 
 " That's only 'nother way o' sayin' the same thing. 
 Now, lookee 'ere !"
 
 81 
 
 ." Yessem." 
 
 " Ye're boun' to marry a fool no sensible gal '11 
 have ye." 
 
 " Yessem." 
 
 "'N' the sooner it's over with, the less frettin' 'n' 
 'tewin' they'll be for me." 
 
 " Sure thing !" 
 
 " 'N' so I'm willin' to make a bargain with ye." 
 
 " Yessem ?" 
 
 " Ye're to let Emmy Webster 'lone, d' ye mind ? 'N' 
 ye ain't to tag aroun' arter 'er so 't nobody else can't git 
 a word in edgeways 'thout ye're bein' aroun' to hear." 
 
 " I savey !" 
 
 " 'N' if anybody should want to talk with 'er if ye 
 should see anybody a-talkin' with 'er " 
 
 "But they ain't nobody to talk to 'er but me 'n' 
 Julius!" 
 
 " That's jes' what I mean. If her V Julius should bo 
 talkin' together " 
 
 Abiathar whistled. 
 
 " Snickerin' Moses ! Julius !" 
 
 " Keep yer face still 'n' 'tend to what I say ! If ye 
 should see 'em edgin' up to each other " 
 
 " I'm to edge the other way, hey ? Lor', but they 
 won't, marm ! Lemme tell ye why. 'Long when she 
 fust come 'n' I ast 'er 'n' she said she wouldn't ; ' Well,' 
 says I, ' don't ye never mean to marry nobody ?' ' No,' 
 says she. ' Wouldn't ye take even Julius ?' says I. 'N 1 
 she says ' No.' " 
 
 The old woman considered deeply. 
 
 " Well, gals sometimes change their minds," she said, 
 at last. " But if ye keep out o' the way 'n' do jes' like
 
 I've told ye, I'll let ye go down to Donhaly City some- 
 time afore winter V Lord save us ! doubla up with 
 Cynthy Beanston." 
 
 Abiathar gave a howl of joy, which was followed by an 
 exclamation of suspicion. 
 
 "Ow, ye're honeyfoglin' me ye don't mean a word 
 ye say. Ye jes' want me to help them along 'n' then 
 ye'll peter out on me. I know you /" 
 
 " I mean it," declared his mother. 
 
 " Well, now, if ye ain't a peach !" cried Abiathar, con- 
 vinced by his mother's look of established disgust. He 
 straddled about the room in the awkwardness of his de- 
 light. " Sufferin' beeswax ! What '11 Cynthy say ?" 
 
 "Well, don't go to cackin' all over the range like ye 
 was clean loony," cautioned his mother. " 'N' now go 
 out V tousle aroun' with that 'ere wood -pile a while 
 afore dinner 'n' see how much o' it ye kin git on top of. 
 Cynthy's a pie-faced fool, 'n' if it wa'n't 't I'm yer 
 mother, ye'd be but little better ; 'n' it 'ud be a shame to 
 spile two fam'lies with sech truck, if I do say it myself. 
 It's better to make one o' ye, 'n' the world '11 see less o' 
 ye. Come, be off !" 
 
 And Abiathar skipped away, singing breathlessly : 
 
 " 'My gal's from Baltimore, 
 Street-cars go by the door!'" 
 
 which finally merged into " Maggie Murphy's Home." 
 
 After the harvest there was little for the men to do for 
 a time, and Julius was a good deal about the house. Mrs. 
 Irish watched him above the long strips of her " wild- 
 goose chase," and wished she were able to walk off and
 
 leave him and Emma together. She tried to be patient, 
 but succeeded only in being alert. 
 
 " I d' know whether Emmy 'd marry 'im or not," she 
 reflected. " She don't take on like the marryin' kind ; 
 she ain't a drooper she ain't a clinger. If I could walk 
 into 'er head 'n' set down 'n' take off my things 'n' stay 
 's long 's I like, I might be able to find out suthin' 'bout 
 'er. But as 'tis, I've jes' got to leave the hull thing to 
 Providence." She had never before realized the folly of 
 interference and the futility of faith. 
 
 As for Julius, he found it a difficult matter now to con- 
 fine his conversation with Emma to impersonal topics. 
 His well-centred nature had lost its equilibrium ; his self- 
 control was trickling away drop by drop in the warmth 
 of his love, as he had seen a snow-field melt and disap- 
 pear before the sun. He was aware of a tendency to ex- 
 plosive speech which might get the better of him at any 
 moment. The change from his old simple self to this 
 complex creature of opposing impulses had been gradual 
 at first hardly more than an intelligent action of the 
 nervous system in recognition of changed externals. But 
 now it had become a living touch upon his sensibilities. 
 He did not comprehend the change when one does 
 comprehend a transition, one is seldom electrified by the 
 result. Thus it happened that Julius hardly recognized 
 himself in love. He watched Emma's looks with an 
 eagerness of whose expression he was unaware. After 
 talking with her, he carried but little of himself away. 
 
 Souls are magnets ; they attract and repel. He re- 
 mained as much in her sight as he could, eager, ecstatic, 
 his thoughts following her aerially, as a bird plies its 
 wings. When alone, he fancied conversations in which
 
 84 
 
 he would engage her, he remembered incidents which 
 would please her, he elaborated arguments in support of 
 his beliefs, lie did not care to convert her to his views 
 the adoption of his opinions by his friends was not the 
 ultimate turn of his individuality. He only wanted to be 
 near her and look upon her face. 
 
 The thought of her followed him about all his work. 
 She put joy into everything he touched. While chop- 
 ping wood in the gulch below the house, he was obliged 
 to stop now and then and make his happiness audible in 
 an exhalation. The fragrance of the pine was delicious ; 
 as he split the log and tossed the sticks into a pile for 
 the horses to " snake " up to the house on the mud-sled, 
 he felt like setting his teeth into the sweet white grain, 
 just to taste how clean and wholesome the wood was. It 
 was good only to breathe and think and move the mus- 
 cles. Who shall say that the whole universe is not a 
 partaker in our joys? It seemed to Julius the moun- 
 tains looked less grim than they used to do in autumn, 
 the skies more friendly. Beneath mountain and cloud 
 beats the eager human heart, throbs the eager human be- 
 lief in the all-sufficiency of love and labor. Mountain 
 may talk to mountain, cloud to cloud ; poets may find in 
 such imaginings an anthropomorphism the reverse of pro- 
 fane. But for the man is the passionate soul of events 
 to be grasped and understood, the hard, unsightly mate- 
 rial of life to be moulded and beautified. After the di- 
 vine struggle of this world, will we not feel lost, liv- 
 ing out the colorless existence of angels homesick 
 in the luminous, sluggish, unvarying atmosphere of 
 heaven ? 
 
 "Ye're keepin' yer word, 'Biathar?" the old woman
 
 would ask, whenever she and her younger son were left 
 
 alone. 
 
 " Yessem," would come the answer in a pious voice. 
 " Do they ever seem to be talkin' quiet-like together ?" 
 " No ; she shins right out 's soon 's ever she sees 'im 
 
 comin', 'less they 's some 'un else aroun'. " 
 
 " I've noticed it myself," groaned the old woman. 
 
 " But ye're shore ye're givin' 'em a chance ; ye're shore 
 
 ye're keepin' still ?" 
 
 " Still? I ain't hardly spoke to 'er fer three weeks !" 
 " A body 'd make shore I'd swore Julius to silence, 
 
 too," the mother would add, anxiously. And she kept 
 
 on watching and calculating with that perseverance 
 
 which had become the soul of her life. 
 
 " Who's that new feller they've got over to Bean- 
 ston's ?" Mrs. Irish asked one day. 
 
 " D' ye mean Tom Taylor?" was her husband's inter- 
 rogative answer. 
 
 " How long 's he been there ?" 
 
 " Oh, a week or so." 
 
 " Well, they say Cynthy's perfeckly becacked arter 
 'im, 'n' don't do nothin' on airth but set aroun' 'n' smirk 
 at 'im from mornin' till night. Is he a tenderfoot?" 
 
 " Don't ye worry yourself 'bout Cynthy," responded 
 Abiathar, but with a certain gloom. " Cynthy^s all right !" 
 
 " He's from somers East," said her husband, striking 
 a match on his overalls, and holding his pipe in readi- 
 ness. He was so accustomed to lighting his pipe out-of- 
 doors that even in the house he protected the flame by 
 the hollow of his hand. "'N' he kin straddle a broncho 
 like like the devil ! I seen 'im on one o' Beanston's
 
 crack buckers yistiddy, 'n' he sot there 's easy 's pie. 
 Beanston says he allus gits there 'n' stays there, too." 
 
 " Well, Cynthy '11 do a smart chance o' carrantin' 
 aroun' arter 'im, I'll go bail she'd take up with any- 
 thing. I reckon she wears that little doodah on 'er hair 
 every day if they 's a man aroun'." 
 
 " That's a hairpin," corrected Abiathar, with dignity. 
 " 'N' she sticks it on in jes' the right place, 'n' don't ye 
 fergit it !" 
 
 The old woman did not answer. She was not in a 
 state of mind to feel easy about the arrival of any man 
 in the vicinity of Cloud Mountain. In that country men 
 had been known to propose at first sight to plainer girls 
 than Emma Webster, and be accepted, too. Mrs. Irish 
 had faith in Julius as long as there were no rivals. 
 
 " He's one o' the best broncho-busters I ever seen," 
 continued Mr. Irisb, between leisurely whiffs at his pipe. 
 " The one I seen 'im tackle was a red-headed terror ye 
 'member the one they call Roarer, Julius? 'n' I never 
 seen nothin' like the way he went at it, not even up to 
 Beacham's in the early days. The critter jes' nachelly 
 stood up on his tail 'n' throwed hisself, 'n' there sot 
 Taylor, comftable 's Moses in the bulrushes, a-grinnin' 
 at the beast 'n' encourggin' it to keep it up. Arter- 
 wards he rode it round the corral at full tilt 'n' swung 
 hisself out o' the saddle 'n' picked up a bowie-knife 't 
 had been stuck in the ground." 
 
 Emma Webster looked up from her sewing by the 
 window. 
 
 " I knowed a man wunst 't could pick up a knife like 
 that," she said. " It was back home. But his name 
 wa'n't Taylor."
 
 87 
 
 " Goin' to stay with Bcanstons long ?" queried the old 
 woman. 
 
 " Till spring. He says he'd ruther stay there V go 
 a-rawhidin' aroun' Donhaly City it's more in his line. 
 I reckon he aims to go into stock on his own hook 's 
 soon 's he kin git turned aroun'. They 's a range up 
 'bove Baumgardener's 't he's got his eye on. He seems 
 to have plenty o' wads." 
 
 Emma Webster was bending low over her work. The 
 sunset was melting slowly into the gray sky, and there 
 was no color of any sort in the air beyond her. The 
 light was too dim to see by, but she sewed on atten- 
 tively. 
 
 "What does he look like?" she inquired, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 "Good Lord! she's interested a'ready," thought the 
 old woman. 
 
 " Oh, I reckon a woomarn 'ud call 'im a han'some figger 
 o' a man," said the ranchman, placidly. " I ain't no 
 good at describin' folks. To me a man's a man, 'n' a 
 woomarn's a woomarn, 'n' if I try to make more out o' 
 'em, I lose my grip." He yawned slightly. " Noticed 
 how fat I been gittin' lately, Melissy ? That comes o' 
 yer jawin' less 'n ye useter afore Emmy come. Ye kin 
 go a-gamblin' on it, they ain't no kind o' grub o' any 
 sort garden truck or store truck 't 's half so fattenin' 
 's peace !" 
 
 There was silence in the room. The fire burned with 
 a sputtering, stammering sound. The light grew dim- 
 mer, but did not fade out. Twilight under these high 
 horizons hangs on like a woman in poor health. The 
 mists shifted; the wind in the pines intoned monoto-
 
 nously like one doomed to a dismal penance. A long 
 procession of colorless clouds went streaming upward 
 past the window as if following in the train of the dead 
 sun. 
 
 " Wa'n't that a drop or two o' rain 't struck the 
 winder?" inquired the old man. 
 
 Emma took no notice. 
 
 " It's wonderful how the rain 's held off this fall," he 
 continued. " When it does come, the snow won't be fur 
 behind it." 
 
 "Light the candles, 'Biathar," commanded the old 
 woman. " Land, don't work over them ole overalls no 
 longer, Emmy. Ye'll put out yer eyes." 
 
 Emma did not answer. 
 
 " Was he dark or light ?" she inquired, bending still 
 lower over her sewing. 
 
 " Dark 's the devil !" burst forth Abiathar, as he 
 struck a light. "'N' I wish 't he was with 'im so 
 there !" 
 
 Emma laid aside her sewing hastily. 
 
 " I'll fetch the water fer supper," she said, taking the 
 pail from the bench by the door. 
 
 " No ; let me," said Abiathar. " That's my work." 
 
 " Well, let's go together, then," she answered. And 
 they left the room. 
 
 The wind had ceased, and the pines were still. The 
 silence was tense with the strain of emptiness which 
 pervades space. The canon beneath them was black as 
 death. At noonday a transient gleam of the sun had 
 wavered fitfully over its gray rocks and gloomy pines, 
 and had seemed glad to quit a scene which was almost 
 like the nether world.
 
 " I'm shore I felt a sprinkle," declared Abiathar, ex- 
 tending his hand, palm upward. "Yes there 'twas 
 ag'in." He examined the clouds carefully, and noticed 
 the direction of the wind. " 'Twon't come this way, 
 this time, though. But look over on Donhaly Mountain." 
 He pointed towards the mighty peak whose summit 
 seemed to move as it spun out the rain from its mighty 
 distaff of clouds. " They 's some style about the rain up 
 there !" 
 
 As he stooped over the spring, Emma said, in a strained 
 voice. 
 
 " Did he have a scar on his forrid, 'Biathar this Tom 
 Taylor, I mean a big purple scar on his left temple, 
 clost up to his hair?" 
 
 "No, I'm shore he didn't. Or if he did, I couldn't 
 see it his hair 's so long. Why is it, d' ye reckon, 't 
 wimmin go wild over long black hair?" 
 
 She was gazing out over the darkening foot-hills with 
 unseeing eyes. A surge of cloud broke over the pines 
 and against the mountains, as cold and gray and heavy 
 as the breakers of the North Sea. 
 
 " I didn't know they did," she answered, absently. 
 
 " Cynthy does," declared Abiathar, with a groan.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 A MAN'S love begins as a sentiment, but soon broadens 
 into a system of philosophy. 
 
 " What's wimmin V men made fer if not to keer fer 
 each other?" Julius argued with himself. "What's men 
 strong fer if not to look out fer the weak ? 'N' what's 
 wimmin weak fer if not to be looked out fer ? It's flyin' 
 in the face o' Nater to go on this way. I b'lieve Emmy 
 Webster keers fer me I b'lieve she does ! 'N' if she 
 does, she's got to own up to it I won't let her fight me 
 off!" 
 
 But she was so mildly firm, so appealingly repellent, 
 that his resolve always weakened when he approached 
 her. He could not force himself into that sacred wom- 
 an's world, from which her affection and fear looked 
 forth so timidly. She defeated his most savage resolves 
 by a mere lifting of the eyes ; he could not realize the 
 strength of her weakness till afterwards, when he had 
 time to think it over. But new hopes sprang out of 
 each defeat, and in his meditations he flattered himself 
 by the imaginary facilities of future opportunities. 
 
 " I could be so happy with 'er !" he often thought 
 " so happy 'n' good !" In his mind happiness was al- 
 ways associated with goodness. His ideal future was an 
 extended landscape pervaded by his ideal self. 
 
 He frequently took himself to task for the weakness 
 which made him a feeble lay-figure- for her to hang her
 
 91 
 
 caprices upon. It was caprice he was sure of it ex- 
 cept when her eyes looked her woman's reasons into his. 
 He thought bitter things of her in his moments of re- 
 sentment and pique. Was she playing with him hold- 
 ing him at arm's-length just to see what he would do ? 
 He had once attended a masked ball at Donhala City. 
 Was she like one of those capering figures, taking ad- 
 vantage of being hidden while others were in plain sight? 
 He could believe anything in a general way of the com- 
 plex vanity of woman. But Emma ! so gentle, so dep- 
 recating, so kind ! the thought of coquetry in connec- 
 tion with her made him ashamed ; and in her presence 
 he atoned for his ungenerous thoughts by new yieldings 
 to the silence which her eyes begged of him. 
 
 " I've got to sober myself down V think this thing 
 out. It's fer her good, jes' 's much 's mine. If I un- 
 derstood 'er reasons fer actin' so But there ! if a man 
 understood causes perfeckly, he'd be able to shy aroun' 
 all the mis'ries o' life. This 'ere secret o' hern, now 
 what is it? Nothin' so turble, I'll swear. She 's let 
 'er conscience make a mountain out o' it that conscience 
 o' hern could do anything. Well " (with a slow grimace 
 of despair), " I don't see no way fer it but to jump right 
 at 'er afore she has a chance to look at me, V make 'er 
 own up. I never '11 be able to git it out o' her if she has 
 a look at me fust !" 
 
 " Marm 's so durn glum these days !" Abiathar com- 
 plained. " She sets aroun' like the las' rose o' Sharon, 
 mumpin' from mornin' till night. I wonder what's come 
 over 'er?" 
 
 " You jcs' 'tend to Cynthy Beanston V sech-like shal- 
 ler truck 't ye kin understan'," retorted his mother.
 
 92 
 
 "I've noticed it myself more 'n ever," declared Mr. 
 Irish. " What's the matter, Melissy ? Ye don't jaw 
 with half the sperrit ye useter. I reckon ye better let 
 Emmy fix ye up a dose o' hop tea. Yer liver 's out o' 
 whack." . 
 
 " Liver !" snorted the old woman. " Hop tea ! It's 
 the hull spinal column o' this 'ere fam'ly 't 's out o' 
 whack ; what we need is backbone, 'n' they ain't no 
 med'cine in Collyraydo 't kin make it. Lord, Lord, what 
 a world! holler, all holler clean through; all crusts 
 'thout intervenin' pie. Come ! they 's plenty o' room out- 
 doors ; let's all go off 'n' heave rocks at ourselves. I'd 
 like to slap 'n' poke suthin', I would ! I wish 't 'Biathar 
 was a kid ag'in wouldn't I put the dingbats on 'im? 
 But as 'tis well, they ain't no comfort in life, nohow !" 
 
 " Oh, come, mother !" expostulated Mr. Irish. " Sprink 
 up sprink up 'n' be gay ! Ye can't expect everything 
 to be jes' so no rose 'thout bugs in this world, ye know. 
 If we don't take things as we find 'em, they'll take us as 
 they find us, 'n' that's a darn sight wuss. Leave wor- 
 ryin' to fat folks, Melissy. We kin 'tend to that. The 
 trouble is, ye'd like to set aroun' with yer nose allus 
 stuck into a bokay. That's what life 'ud mean if we 
 allus got things to suit us." 
 
 The old woman glared at him with withering con- 
 tempt, then turned to Emma. 
 
 "Do set down a minute, child, 'n' rest. I shouldn't 
 wonder if I'd have to make the hop tea fer you, if ye 
 keep on palin' 'n' thinnin' out. Ye've been like 'nother 
 gal lately. What's the matter?" 
 
 "I ain't been quite myself," Emma confessed, in a 
 low voice.
 
 " Ye've been workin' too hard," said the old woman, 
 anxiously. " Hadn't I better send over fer Cynthy fer a 
 week or two ? She'd be tickled to death. 'N' wouldn't 
 'Biathar have a fit V wouldn't I !" 
 
 " No, don't send fer 'er. I'll be all right by mornin'. 
 Wait !" 
 
 " Yes, it's nothin' but wait, wait, wait on this ranch," 
 grumbled the old woman to herself. " Why don't I do 
 suthin', anyhow, stidder settin' up 'ere like a bump on a 
 log while Julius 'n' that gal go to rack 'n' ruin afore my 
 face 'n' eyes? I'd better spile the bizness to wunst 'n 
 to have it hangin' on like this. The preachers may git 
 up 'n' howl 'bout folks lovin' theirselvcs better 'n other 
 folks, but if they never hated theirselves wuss 'n other 
 folks, they never had my opportunities that's all !" 
 
 The very next morning Abiathar came to the door 
 mysteriously. 
 
 " Marm !" he called, in a stage whisper. 
 
 The old woman gave an impatient switch to her 
 skirts. 
 
 " Well, out with it !" she said. 
 
 " Emmy's churnin' !" The importance of his tone was 
 singularly at variance with his information. 
 
 " Go mend yer head !" snapped his mother. " Emmy 
 allus churns o' Wednesdays !" 
 
 " But Jule 's sneakin' up on 'er from the back way," 
 continued Abiathar, leaning far forward. 
 
 The old woman sunk in slowly at the waist, and set- 
 tled back in her chair. 
 
 " I seen 'im come up 'n' peek inter the shed to make 
 shore she was there, 'n' then he stopped outside to brace 
 up. He'll be there in a minute!" He chuckled thickly.
 
 ( J4 
 
 " They'll be lallygaggin' wuss 'n Cynthy 'n' me nex' thing 
 ye know !" 
 
 "That's right laff 'n' show yer ign'rance," snarled 
 the old woman. " If ye had the sense o' fishworras 
 But lookee here !" She suddenly sat erect. 
 
 " Marm ?" 
 
 " Don't marm me, but scrape yer wits together 'n' do 
 what I tell ye. Move my cheer over there, so 't I kin 
 peek out inter the shed 'n' bring my piece-work, so 't 
 I kin look busy. 'N' do it quick !" Mrs. Irish had made 
 it a rule of her life to see things for herself. Hidden 
 matters were to her the source of untoward surmises. 
 She was one of those literal -minded spectators of the 
 drama of life who permit nothing to their own imagina- 
 tions, and resent it if an actor now and then leaves a point 
 to hazard. If Julius and Emma were to make fools of 
 themselves, it followed from the acquired habits of many 
 years that she must know precisely how they did it. Of 
 those finer points of ethics which develop delicacy of 
 feeling she was as ignorant as she was of Volapiik or 
 Hebrew. 
 
 Emma Webster was bending wearily over the churn. 
 The open door made a luminous blue oblong beyond her. 
 A little way down the mountain a leafless thicket of cot- 
 ton woods stirred stiffly in the wind. Beyond the canon 
 the slopes of the foot-hills, with their undergrowth of 
 stunted evergreen, looked black as if dusted with plum- 
 bago. 
 
 There was a certain sadness in the aspect of things 
 the very air seemed conscious of the solemn presence of 
 autumn. The mountains, too, were feeling the change,
 
 95 
 
 and wore a drawn, convulsed look, like the upturned, 
 tearful faces of women. The clematis draped the rocks 
 by the spring like funereal wreaths above a mossed head- 
 stone. The whole world seemed preparing for death. 
 
 Emma Webster had awakened that morning with a 
 leaden weight at her heart which had been counteractive 
 to her very prayers. The common need of humanity for 
 an individual love and sympathy, the woman's craving for 
 a personal happiness, something more intimate than the 
 uplooking piety of the creature for the Creator, was mak- 
 ing itself felt in her with the relentless energy of phys- 
 ical pain. Was it but a passing mood an alternation of 
 despair with hope, such as somehow maintains the trem- 
 ulous equipoise of life ? Could she not fix her thoughts 
 on the hereafter, and be content with its promises ? God 
 had given man dominion over every created thing but 
 himself ; why had He stopped there ? Why had He not 
 given her the strength of will to do the right after know- 
 ing it the force of conviction which acts without com- 
 plaint as conscience dictates ? The faith which had hith- 
 erto supported her steps as a staff seemed all at once to 
 have been snatched away, and she found herself tottering 
 feebly. Should she confess her whole past to Julius, and 
 let that be her answer to his love ? That would answer 
 it, surely with death. But she could not bring herself 
 to.that just yet. It never occurred to her that he might 
 condone her sin, and love her more than ever. If she 
 were to die, and he were to find out the truth, he might 
 forgive her ; but living, never ! Death is a free dispenser 
 of pity and charity, but life is inexorable, and holds us 
 with unvarying strictness to the consequences of our 
 deeds.
 
 The sadness of the thought urged the slow tears to her 
 eyes. It was all so desolate, so wide of the happiness 
 which might have been hers ! She gazed out along the 
 solemn mountains in a mute appeal for consolation. The 
 landscapes, narrowed though they were by towering sum- 
 mits, always gave her an idea of the immensity of space. 
 They overawed and silenced her troubles ; in their pres- 
 ence she felt herself truly but an atom in immensity. 
 They made material the immutability of God ; here He 
 was the Great Silence, and all things were His thoughts, 
 visibly expressed. Here she could shift her conscious- 
 ness from the subjective of personal emotion to the ob- 
 jective of broad comprehension, and become a part of 
 Nature's stupendous calm, regarding the world as the 
 rocks and forests do, with the established indifference 
 which comes of a prolonged, impersonal contemplation 
 of the Infinite. 
 
 But this morning the mountains brought no calm. 
 Self presented its claims with importunate clamorings 
 and would not be put off. Her capacity for happiness 
 seemed as great as the sea ; she was hungry for a near, 
 human affection which should fill and satisfy ; and the 
 conviction that her lot must be a loveless exception to 
 the rule of human happiness an exception of absti- 
 nence and self -repression darkened her soul with a 
 weary dread which her very religion made more gloomy. 
 
 In this mood Julius's voice fell upon her ear like the 
 voice of fate. 
 
 " Emmy !" he called. 
 
 She turned with a gesture of surprise and dread. The 
 dasher descended slowly. 
 
 " Why !" she said, with a catch in her voice. " Julius !"
 
 97 
 
 " Ye're s'prised to see me ?" 
 
 " I I reckoned ye was down to the lower barn," she 
 said, faintly. 
 
 " I was. But a feller has intervals o' bizness. They 
 ain't nothin' urgent this mornin'. 'N' I knowed 'twas 
 clmrnin'-day." 
 
 The dasher recommenced its soft rhythm, and the 
 splayed mouth of the churn made eager, gulping noises 
 as if enjoying the taste of the rich yellow cream. 
 
 " What was ye thinkin' of ?" he inquired. He drew 
 nearer, leaning one thin, muscular shoulder against the 
 door-post and watching her gravely. " Yer eyes didn't 
 look like they seen anything outside o' yerself." 
 
 " I was lookin' innards," she confessed. 
 
 " 'N' what did ye find to trouble ye ?" 
 
 " Did I look troubled ?" 
 
 " Ye surely did ! ? ' 
 
 She gazed beyond him with an effort in her eyes, as 
 if trying to rectify her sight. She must keep her real 
 thoughts from him at any cost. If he were even to sus- 
 pect the whole truth, he would hate and despise her for- 
 ever. Her eyes wandered along the purple foot-hills, and 
 thence to the canon just below the house. 
 
 " I was thinkin'," she answered after a moment, " how 
 the willers is all turned yaller along the crick, V the 
 wild duck has begun to fly south. 'N' a coyote was 
 yelpin' jest above the corral, 'n' its noise made echoes 
 from the high cliffs beyend." 
 
 " Yes, the fall's reely here ag'in. Yistiddy, up to the 
 Bashan Hills, I run into a little snow-storm hard little 
 wads o' snow, rattlin' down like a deluge o' rice-grains. 
 The cattle '11 have to be drove down from the foot-hills
 
 'fore long. The ice was thick 'long the edges o' the 
 crick this mornin'. 'N' the other day I seen two herd o' 
 deer film 1 'long the canon a mile b'low ye know the si- 
 lent way they have o' trailin' along, one arter the other ? 
 They was thirty in one herd 'n' thirty - seven in the 
 other. That was purty good fer one day, even in these 
 parts." 
 
 But it was impossible to go on like that. We cannot 
 hide our thoughts our very efforts at concealment are 
 ill-considered disclosures. A sudden perception of the 
 childishness of this pretence flashed through Julius. He 
 settled back more firmly against the door-post, and faced 
 her aggressively. Then, with a sudden upgiving of his 
 whole soul to his dominant emotion, he flung himself 
 away from the door. 
 
 " Look at me, Emmy !" he commanded, in a tone of 
 assumption and mastery. 
 
 She hung her head, then obeyed with a fluttering of 
 the eyelids. 
 
 " Straight straight !" he cried. " I ain't seen ye 
 square in the face fer a week." 
 
 They looked into each other's eyes, she helpless, he 
 triumphant. 
 
 " Stop churnin'," he went on. 
 
 She gazed at him appealingly, the dasher suspended. 
 
 "I'm goin' to go on with what I begun to say that 
 day by the spring. I know ye won't like it ye've 
 showed plain 'nough 't ye want me to keep still. If I 
 was a stick or a stone I'd obey ye, too ; but bein' a man, 
 'n' bavin' the feelin's o' a man, I've got the right to 
 speak." 
 
 " The right "
 
 " The power to speak gives me the right." 
 
 She did not answer, but her breath came quickly, and 
 her hands trembled. 
 
 " Well ! it's jes' like 'tis to a round-up in the spring. If 
 I have to be in a hurry in gittin' to a certain p'int, I use 
 the spurs ; it's what they're fer. 'N' that's what my per- 
 severance is fer that's what it's a-doin' now. If I don't 
 push this thing, who will? Heaven won't send a merry- 
 cle. It's fer me to do it. 'N' if ye hate me fer it, I'll 
 have to stan' it. I can't keep still. Mebbe I ain't per- 
 lite I shouldn't wonder if I wa'n't. I ain't a bloodless 
 skel'ton 't kin grin 'n' grin, no matter what comes up. 
 I'm human 'n' I'm talkin' to a human. Ye've got 
 hearin' 'n' feelin'. Oh, I know ye'd ruther I'd keep still 
 I know ye would. 'N' I have kep' still ye must 
 a-seen how I held myself in. Well, I've earned the right 
 to speak now." 
 
 She was recovering herself a little. " It don't foller 't 
 I've earned the right to hear ye," she said. 
 
 He pondered her words for a little time. 
 
 " D' ye mean " he began. 
 
 " I mean I ain't got the right to hear ye." 
 
 " Why ?" 
 
 " That I can't tell ye." 
 
 " Yes ; ye have got the right to hear me it's be- 
 come a part o' yer duty in these days we've been to- 
 gether, fer I've been a happy man in the thought o' ye, 
 Emmy Webster. Ye've been like the sunshine about 
 me sunshine 't could look 'n' speak. Ye've made me 
 want to be a good man." 
 
 " Ye was good afore, I'll be boun'," she said in a low 
 tone.
 
 100 
 
 " Ob, it was d if rent. Ye've put a meanin' into every- 
 thing. See here !" He felt in his vest-pocket for a mo- 
 ment, and drew out a soiled newspaper cutting. "Ye 
 'member the newspaper 't was wrapped round yer things 
 when ye come to Cloud Mountain? Well I cut that 
 out. Read it." 
 
 She took it and read a marked paragraph in the iden- 
 tical column of " Gems of Thought " which had attracted 
 her attention as. she sat by the river eating her breakfast 
 that morning after her arrival at Donhala City : 
 
 " Make thy present regal, that in future thy past may 
 be regal ; so shalt thou some day be as a private citizen 
 owning the palace of many kings." 
 
 She handed back the bit of paper in silence. 
 
 " I read that, 'n' it struck me all of a heap. I said 
 to myself, ' She'd like a man 't lived up to that. She 
 brought it to me I'll live up to it.' 'N' I've tried. It's 
 been the greatest joy o' my life to wonder what ye'd like 
 me to be, 'n' then try to be jes' so. Why, see ! I never 
 loved 'nother woomarn, Emmy I reckon they ain't 
 'nother great strappin' feller like me in Collyraydo 't 
 kin say that. Well, that ain't no great credit to me 
 I had to wait fer ye. It was Nater a-guidin' me. I 
 ain't one o' the sort 't go a-fishin' in all waters 'n' is sat- 
 isfied with whatever they kin ketch. Love's a matter 
 o' choice with me, 'n' the choice wunst made is made 
 ferever." 
 
 " God help ye, then !" said Emma Webster, under 
 her breath. 
 
 " Why, see what my idee o' happiness useter be," he 
 went on, without hearing her. " I useter say to mother, 
 ' The happiest man 's the one 't's trained hisself never
 
 101 
 
 to be lonesome.' 'N' I tried to live up to it I did live 
 up to it. My lonely life on the range made some sech 
 text ne'sarv, to keep me from goin' insane. I didn't 
 want to be in love I'd read somers in a almanac 't the 
 birth o' passion is the death o' prudence, V I b'lieved 
 it. All I wanted was stren'th added to stren'th in my- 
 self. I read what books I could they was mighty few 
 V they kep' my thoughts a-goin'. It was good 's fur 
 's it went. I watched the cowboys, I -listened to 'em 
 talkin' together, tellin' things 'bout theirselves 't 'ud 
 a-shamed the devil, servin' their passions as they never 
 thort o' servin' God. I int'rested myself in things, 'n' 
 that suited me better. Sometimes the beauty o' some 
 p'int o' rocks, or mebbe a little bunch o' flowers in one 
 o' the gulches 'ud come over me all to wunst I dunno 
 how 'twas, but fer a minute I felt like suthin' sharp 'd 
 struck me in the eye, 'n' I had to turn away till I got 
 over it. But by-'n'-by I could see clearer, 'n' I knowed 
 it was a glimpse o' God 't I'd ketched a Spirit 't was 
 everywhere, workin' as Law. Oh, I learned 't they ain't 
 nothin' in this 'ere world 't a man can't make instruc- 
 tive 'twon't lead straight to Him, if ye'll let it; but 
 I missed suthin', I needed suthin'. Now I know what 
 'twas 'twas you! 'N' now things is so dif'rent so 
 dif'rent ! God 's in 'em still, Emmy but so be you ! I 
 love ye, Emmy. I'm lonesome 'n' helpless 'thout ye. I 
 see all the good o' the world through yer eyes all the 
 hopes o' the future through yer faith. They say 't Love 
 opens the heart 'n' shets the eyes ; I tell ye, no ! Love 
 gives a sixth sense, better 'n all the others put together 
 the sense o' happiness, which is God's mcanin' in the 
 world !"
 
 102 
 
 He was silent for a little, breathing hard. She looked 
 up at him dumbly, feeling the strain of his mind be- 
 tween conflicting forces which warped her own by sym- 
 pathy like a bent bow. 
 
 " Don't don't !" she finally murmured. 
 
 " It's fer me to speak V you to hear ! Why was it 
 give to me if I'm to hold it back ? It's my happiness 
 V your'n ! Ye ask me to do a impossible thing. Ye 
 ask me " 
 
 "I ask ye to sep'rate yer actions from yer wishes. 
 Yes, a impossible thing fer a man !" 
 
 " Ye ask me to sep'rate my actions from myself a 
 impossible thing fer man or woomarn ! No no ; it's fer 
 us both you 's much 's me. It's fer us two 'n' no one 
 else on this airth, 'n' we can't go 'round hidin' it from 
 each other. Every time I think o' ye, ye rnus' know the 
 truth somehow. I love ye, Emmy so much, so much !" 
 His face was suffused and eager ; he stretched out his 
 arms, but she shrank back. " How kin I keep still when 
 they ain't nothin' else in my mind from mornin' till 
 night ? It's growed to be the chief part o' me it's con- 
 nected with all my thoughts like heart 'n' lungs, bone 
 'n' muscle. If it was took away, my life 'ud foller it ; 
 I'd be useless, anyway. I'm so full o' it I can't hold 
 it all, dear ; it runs over 'n' changes the world. 'N' the 
 world 's so dif'rent, with my love in it ! I feel like one 
 o' a brotherhood the mountains 'n' I understand each 
 other. My work suffers I ain't got no heart in it. 
 When I sleep, ye foller me, 'n' then ye're allus kind. 
 Not speak o' it ? As well ask me not to cry out when 
 I'm hurt, or do anything contrary to natcr." 
 
 Julius knew as little of rhetoric as the sun does of
 
 astronomy, but there was a quickening power in the di- 
 rect manliness of his appeal which was stronger than 
 eloquence. Emma dared not look up at him. Some 
 joyous instinct in her heart applauded his confident 
 tongue, his dominant will. She saw in him her ideal 
 of manly strength and purpose her vision of perfec- 
 tion which had heretofore been conjured up only by 
 some chance word or idea. But if she had tried to 
 speak, she would have uttered a despairing cry of pain. 
 
 " Don't order me to stop," he went on. " I couldn't 
 mind ye now it's been gatherin' in me so long ! See, 
 I ain't much, Emmy I wish 't I was better ; but if I 
 was the best V wisest in the world, my happiness Yd 
 lay in your hands jes' the same. I know what I'm 
 like I've been aroun' among ranch tools till I reckon I 
 don't look much sharper 'n a hoe, 'n' as fer manners, a 
 pack-mule 'ud stan' 'way above me ; but I love ye earnest 
 'n' true, 'n' I'll stan' up to the man's share o' the bur- 
 dens 't fall on us. Ye b'lieve me, Emmy ? Ye b'licve 
 I keer fer ye jes' so ?" 
 
 She put out her hands as if to push him back. 
 
 " How kin I help b'lievin' ? But if it's true, ye mus' 
 never speak o' it ag'in never !" 
 
 He drew himself together in that attitude of mastery 
 which she dreaded and admired. 
 
 " This ain't no one-sided affair," he said, subduing 
 his voice and speaking with forced quiet. "It don't 
 b'long all to you or to me. Ye can't say what's fer 
 me to do, no more 'n I kin say what's fer you to do. 
 The thing's fer both o' us, 'n' we've got to talk it out 
 together." 
 
 " But why, why d' ye keer fer me, Julius ? Why "
 
 104 
 
 " I don't know why I keer fer ye, Emmy no more 'n 
 I know why the primroses in spring is beautiful ; 'tain't 
 ne'sary to know; the reason's hid, but it's good all the 
 same. It growed in me, jes' like the buds grow in May 
 when the sun shines on 'em ; I couldn't help it 'n' I 
 didn't try. Why should I ? Love's the one glory o' 
 livin' it blesses both the lover 'n' the one he loves. 
 Why should I fight agin the joy I find in ye ? They 's 
 little 'nough good in the world at best, 'n' to put this 
 good thing out o' it, 'ud be to leave the world so much 
 wuss off, 'n' me a unhappy man." 
 
 She answered nothing. Her eyes were fastened un- 
 seeingly upon the sun-flooded world outside. The clouds 
 had settled into queer masses along the foot-hills. In 
 one place they formed a long avenue down which the 
 sunbeams travelled lightly ; farther on they lay in a flat 
 circular heap against the slopes like the silver shield of 
 a giant. Below, in the " open " of the canon, the wa- 
 ters dashed loud against the rocks. Above this echo- 
 ing roar rose the music of the pines, dithyrambic, in- 
 comprehensible the cry of a Delphic Sibyl. 
 
 "See," he went on, his voice softening gradually, 
 " they's two o' us we've got to share 'n' share alike. 
 Ye can't say I mustn't speak ; I have my rights, too 
 'n' that's one o' 'em. 'N' the feelin' 't forces me to 
 speak puts ye under obligation to listen." 
 
 " I have listened," she declared. 
 
 " Then I've convinced ye !" cried Julius, with de- 
 cision. 
 
 " Convinced me ? Yes ! but that don't change things. 
 Convincin' ain't all. The world God hissclf 's agin us, 
 Julius !"
 
 105 
 
 " They ain't unless we make 'em so. Think the world 
 V God is fer us 'n' then they will be !" 
 
 " If only I hadn't come 'ere," she murmured. 
 
 " Yer comin' 's a shore sign 't God 'n' the world's on 
 our side! They joined forces 'n' brought it about." 
 
 " If only I'd a-stayed in Donhaly City " 
 
 " I'd a-found ye out," Julius declared, with an op- 
 timism worthy of the transcendentalists. "I'd a-found 
 ye out anywheres 'n' brung ye here." 
 
 " Oh, ye don't know ye can't understan' " 
 
 " I know I love ye I understan' what ye mean to 
 me!" 
 
 " Let me go back " 
 
 " Go away from yer own happiness 'n' mine, Emmy ? 
 No, no !" 
 
 " Let me go back to-morrer 'n' never see yer face 
 ag'in ! I tell ye, ye don't know, Julius " 
 
 " I know I'll never part with ye o' my own free will." 
 
 " But fer yer own happiness " 
 
 " My happiness is where you be I don't ask fer 
 nothin' more." 
 
 Again they were silent, each straining hard against 
 the mood of the other. The noise of the pines and the 
 water receded into a vague background of sound. One 
 could hear the childish lispings of the overflow from 
 the spring, and the tinkling of the gravel as it rolled 
 along the shallow current. 
 
 He took up the word again eagerly. 
 
 " Yes, where you be, Emmy 'n' why should I look 
 further ? Happiness is here fer both o' us ; the seeds o' 
 it is in every man, all ready to sprout. Then God sends 
 the rain V sunshine, 'n' they're full-grown afore we
 
 106 
 
 know it. That's the way my happiness growed when 
 ye come, Emmy ye was the rain 'n' the sun 't brought it 
 up. 'N' now ye'd have me kill it cut it down? No, 
 no ! Come, let's be happy, us two ! We have the 
 chance, let's take it. What if it should never come 
 ag'in ?" 
 
 " It never has come it never will. If ye was to say, 
 Let's be mis'able together, us two " 
 
 " Well, then, let's be mis'able, if that's what ye mean 
 by bein' together. What o' the word ? Ye can't make 
 it do duty fer the deed. We'd be happy, happy ! I 
 know what ye mean, Emmy it's that secret o' your'n 
 't's preyin' on ye. But answer me one thing." 
 
 She looked at him, but timidly. His voice rang out 
 with incisive emphasis. 
 
 " D' ye love me, Emmy ?" 
 
 Her glance fell. 
 
 " Answer me !" 
 
 " Don't, Julius !" she begged. 
 
 "Answer answer!" He beat his foot impatiently 
 against the door-sill. 
 
 She faced him with a sort of shrinking defiance. 
 
 " Ye ain't got no right to speak to me so," she de- 
 clared. "I won't answer ye're goin' beyend all 
 bounds!" 
 
 "Ye won't own up?" 
 
 " No !" 
 
 Julius smiled. She had owned up by her very de- 
 nial. 
 
 "Could ye a-loved me if ye'd a-met me afore this 
 this trouble drove ye out into the world ?" 
 
 Her eyes were fixed beyond him, and a look of weari-
 
 107 
 
 ness and pain settled down upon her features an ex- 
 pression of dread which sees no hope. 
 
 " Don't ask me nothin','' she finally said. " They 
 ain't nothin' I kin tell 't ye orter know !" 
 
 Her appeal touched him, as it must have done any 
 man. But her actions had spoken the whole truth for 
 her. Our affections are a natural telegraph, sending 
 and receiving messages without an effort of the will. Ju- 
 lius smiled in a masterful way. She loved him ! he was 
 sure of it now. Temporize and evade as she might, the 
 truth had been admitted he had it in his hands. The 
 thought filled him with exulting rapture for a moment 
 he had the ichor of the gods in his veins. He was ex- 
 periencing the first great emotion of a man who had 
 not lived largely but well ; he was understanding for the 
 first time that the human may be touched and thrilled 
 by the divine. 
 
 He came closer, and she knew that he was not yet 
 done with her. Would he insist upon a complete con- 
 fession before he would let her alone ? 
 
 " Ye do love me, Emmy !" 
 
 His voice had lost its dominant ring, and was tender 
 and caressing. She did not dare to look up at him ; his 
 tenderness was more compelling than his authority. 
 
 " Ye b'long to me, Emmy ; God made ye fer me, like 
 Eve fer Adam. Tell me, d' ye keer fer me ?" 
 
 She turned her face away, seeing nothing, but thrilled 
 by an emotion as resistless as death. She heard him 
 move on towards her and understood his purpose, but 
 had not the power to stand up and drive him back. She 
 was spent and weak tremulous with the effort of long 
 straining against his will. She felt his outstretched
 
 108 
 
 arms before he touched her, and a sensuous vacancy 
 overcame her like a spell. " I do love ye, Julius I do, 
 I do !" The words were uttered, though she tried to 
 choke them back. She made a little involuntary move- 
 ment towards him ; it was like flinging aside a chain 
 which she had worn crushed against her flesh ; then his 
 arms were about her neck. The touch was happiness. 
 Earth was over heaven had begun. She sank delirious- 
 ly into this new-found joy, this oblivion in which but 
 one emotion lived. He bent and kissed her lingeringly. 
 And thus for a moment they forgot the world. 
 
 Only a moment, and the enchantment was undone. 
 She flung his arms away from her and tottered forward, 
 laying her face against her hands on the door-frame and 
 bursting into tremulous sobs. 
 
 " What have I done ?" she cried. " Oh, Julius, Julius, 
 what have I done ?" 
 
 " Made one human critter happy," smiled Julius. 
 "Don't take on so 'bout it. Pm happy. Why shouldn't 
 you be, if ye keer for me ?" 
 
 But she wept harder, and his smile faded abruptly. 
 
 " Tell me 'bout it, Emmy," he pleaded " tell me all 
 yer troubles, V let me share 'em with ye. Tell me this 
 thing 't's wearin' on ye so I kin help ye, I kin advise. 
 It 'il ease yer mind jes' to make shore 't some un else 
 knows it V 's willin' to help ye." 
 
 " No one kin help me !" 
 
 " The man 't loves ye kin help ye he has the right. 
 Ye keep 'im out o' the best part o' his love if ye ferbid 'im 
 a share in yer troubles. Ye b'long to 'im yer troubles 
 b'long to 'im. Tell me tell me !" 
 
 " No no !"
 
 109 
 
 " I couldn't love ye more 'n what I do, Emmy not 
 if we was two angels clost up to God's throne. Why be 
 ye 'fecrd? I kin be just" 
 
 " Yer justice 'ud kill me !" 
 
 " I kin do what's right, I kin see all sides o' a thing. 
 See, I'm a quiet man. Ye never seen me beside myself 
 ye never seen my feelin's git on the rampage 'n' rush 
 every which way onreasonably. Ye ain't done nothin' 
 't I could be mad with ye fer, nohow. It was afore I 
 knowed ye what have I to do with gettin' mad at that ? 
 Come, tell me !" 
 
 " I can't, Julius !" was her despairing iteration. 
 
 His face glowed down at her, suffused with loving 
 triumph. 
 
 "I want ye fer my wife, Emmy I want ye, I need 
 ye, I must have ye !" 
 
 She flung up her hands with a low moan. 
 
 " Yes, my wife. Why not ? It's the most nat'ral 
 thing in life. A ride down to Donhaly City in the wag- 
 gin, the weddin' at the parson's, dinner at the Palace, 'n' 
 home ag'in by evenin'. It's as easy as nater !" 
 
 " 'S if that was all !" 
 
 " That is all, V they ain't no use o' making more o' 
 it. I've never keered fer wimmin, 'ceptin' to look at 'em 
 acrosst the street to Donhaly City 'n' wonder what they 
 was like, clost to ; d' ye reckon I'm goin' to give ye up 
 jes' fer a whim ? But there !" he added, his voice be- 
 coming tender again ; " don't cry so, Emmy ! Don't 
 cry !" 
 
 But he did not dare to approach her he knew that 
 she would turn and flee. " I I'm sorry I made ye feel 
 so bad ; so sorry ! But things '11 be better now. I
 
 110 
 
 didn't aim to make ye cry surely. But I'll go now. 
 Do try to stop it, my dear. Ye don't know how it goes 
 through me. See, I'm goin'. Don't don't cry no 
 more !" 
 
 He was gone, and she was once more alone. Alone ! 
 The word repeated itself in the silence. How dreary 
 were the gray rocks, the white peaks, the black pines ! 
 The autumn leaves along the slopes lifted before the 
 wind like spirit forms; the pines intoned their melody 
 of inward woe ; the world had grown more desolate than 
 Nature intended ; the very coloring of the mountains 
 seemed laid on with the studied effects of sorrow. 
 
 When Abiathar came into the kitchen half an hour 
 later his mother's patchwork lay idle in her lap. 
 
 " Shove me back to my ole place 'fore either o' 'em 
 comes in," she commanded, in a whisper. " ' T wa'n't 
 honorable, I know, to spy on 'em, but queer folks mus' 
 be worked on by queer methods. I reckon love 's a fine 
 thing young folks seems to think so ; but it's got some 
 all-fired queer ingreedyents, I will say that !" 
 
 "What 'd ye hear? What 'd ye see?" questioned 
 Abiathar, half in awe. 
 
 " 'Nough to make shore 't my younges' boy ain't the 
 only fool in this world," answered his mother, in a tone 
 of gloom.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE morning came when the three men were to set 
 out on their journey to drive down the herds from the 
 foot-hills. Emma got breakfast before daylight. After- 
 wards she did not at once clear off the table and wash 
 the dishes. She went to the window, and stood gazing 
 out towards the corral. The day was still young ; there 
 were blotches of red and purple cloud in the east above 
 the risen sun ; the air had the crisp freshness of day, be- 
 fore the starch is worn out of it. The yellow aspens here 
 and there sent a flash across the autumn's brown decay. 
 The other vegetation was colorless, except the pines, 
 which looked less like trees than the black shadows of 
 trees ; the sagebrush, ragged and worn, grouped itself 
 into aimless little neighborhoods, like troops of slatternly 
 women. The shadows in the gulches seemed struggling 
 upward towards the light. A few birds chirped a dismal 
 matin service among the leafless cottonwoods. 
 
 Emma could see Mr. Irish and Abiathar leaning against 
 the corral, absorbed in watching Julius's movements 
 within. There was a tossing of maned heads, a scatter- 
 ing of hoofs, an upheaving of dust as the horses plunged 
 and evaded, scampered and reared. Julius stood near 
 the centre of the corral, strong, confident, deliberate. 
 He seldom used the snubbing-post his strength and 
 skill together were a match for anything. He swung his 
 lariat with a wide, calculating sweep which brought it
 
 112 
 
 inevitably upon the head of his victim. Mr. Irish and 
 Abiathar always left the lariating to Julius. A horse 
 might leap while the noose was singing in the air, but 
 Julius had estimated the movement beforehand; the 
 rope fell easily, and was tightened with a jerk which 
 meant business. He knew by instinct the force of the 
 wind for or against him, and the weight he flung on 
 the rope when the animal lurched against it was always 
 gauged by a knowledge of the beast's disposition and 
 strength. 
 
 " Is Julius ropin' 'em in now?" asked the old woman 
 from her seat by the fire. 
 
 Yes." 
 
 * How many 's he got ?" 
 
 " The hull three now." 
 
 "They ain't nobody like Julius at the lariat!" cried 
 Mrs. Irish, breaking forth into praises of her son's 
 prowess, which, to an observer of his skill, were the mere 
 pap of rhetoric after the meat of natural eloquence. 
 Emma hardly noticed. She was contrasting the three 
 men, who were now adjusting their saddles outside the 
 corral. A saying of Mrs. Irish's came into her mind and 
 formed a momentary basis of classification : " Eagles is 
 jest 's nat'ral in their way 's what'geese is in their'n." 
 Among men Julius was what the eagle is among birds, 
 the girl thought proudly. And he loved her ! 
 
 " Where's Emmy ?" called Julius, coming in at the 
 last moment for his blankets. 
 
 " She was there by the winder a minute ago," an- 
 swered his mother, gazing about in wonder. 
 
 Julius looked troubled for a moment and then smiled. 
 
 " No matter," he said.
 
 113 
 
 " Emmy ! Emmy !" called the old woman. " Why, 
 where can she be at?" 
 
 " No matter ! I only wanted to say good-bye." 
 
 "The floor must a -let 'er through I'm shore she 
 didn't go to 'er own room." 
 
 " I seen 'er shinnin' out beyend the spring," Abiathar 
 volunteered. " She was tippin' forrard 'n' runnin' like 
 a ole hen arter a grasshopper. I yelled at 'er, but she 
 kep' right on." 
 
 Julius smiled more broadly. He understood why she 
 had absented herself. It was to avoid saying good-bye 
 in presence of the others. He liked that. " If I could a- 
 ketched 'er alone " but he had not time just then to 
 follow out that thought. 
 
 " Well, tell 'er good-bye fer me," he said to his 
 mother, as he left the house. " Tell 'er I was sorry she 
 didn't happen to be in." 
 
 The three men rode up the foot-hill trail, Julius at 
 their head. The clouds seemed going forth with them, 
 clad in the golden mail of the sun. The light lay heavy 
 and yellow beyond the blackness of the pines ; the pur- 
 ple concaves of the cliffs had a cool, saturated look, as if 
 water had been dashed against them ; the air was so still 
 that one could hear the reluctant falling of the leaves in 
 the gulches. 
 
 " She does love me !" Julius said to himself. He rode 
 .on, dreaming over the book of the future as devoutly as 
 a monk over his storied page. 
 
 " Well, so much fer so much," said the old woman, 
 when the men were gone. " The Lord knows whether 
 they'll ever come back I don't ! It's most 's bad 's the 
 round-up in the spring. Ye never kin tell what's goin'
 
 114 
 
 to happen. They may be overtook by a snow-storm, the 
 cattle may stampede V tromple 'em to death " 
 
 " They'll come back," said Emma, hastily. 
 
 " They allus have" the old woman was obliged to 
 admit. 
 
 " Do all the ranchers round up their cattle in the fall?" 
 Emma inquired. 
 
 " No most o' 'em don't. Beanstons don't nor Star- 
 birds, nor Rothschilds. But we've found it pays. If we 
 kin keep the cattle in the gulches 'n' bottoms while the 
 snow 's on, we don't lose a quarter 's many. It's warmer 
 down there, 'n' the feed 's better." 
 
 u But when the grass is covered with snow " 
 
 " Oh, they paw their way to it trust 'em fer that !" 
 
 " 'N' don't they never wonder back to the high 
 places ?" 
 
 " Oh yes some o' the fool critters allus does. But 
 most o' 'em seem to see 't it's fer their good to stay 
 where they're put. The men's work in winter 's mos'ly 
 to keep 'em from strayin' back on the hills 'n' hard 
 work 'tis, too. But it's wuth the trouble 'n' danger, 
 Julius says." 
 
 When Julius returned something happened which his 
 imagination had never stretched to. As he was passing 
 the rocks near the spring, a woman leaped out and flung 
 her arms around his neck. 
 
 " I'm so glad so glad !" cried Emma Webster. And 
 before he had time to reach out and clasp her, she had 
 disappeared around the corner of the shed. 
 
 "Everything 's gone all right, I hope?" she said, 
 quietly, giving him her hand when they met before his 
 mother.
 
 115 
 
 " Couldn't be better !" he answered, so meaningly that 
 she blushed and turned away. 
 
 The snows would soon be on, and preparations were 
 forward for the last trip to Douhala City for winter sup- 
 plies. A long list of articles had been made out in 
 Emma Webster's handwriting, and Mr. Irish and Abia- 
 thar were to make the journey. Julius was to remain 
 at home and look after the ranch. 
 
 " Cynthy wants to go 'long," said Abiathar, for whom 
 the occasion had the importance of the last social event 
 of the year. " She's goin' to wait fer us down to Roths- 
 child's bridge. 'N' her V me 's goin' to set on the back 
 seat together " 
 
 " 'N' lallygag," interrupted his mother. 
 
 Abiathar grinned cheerfully. 
 
 "Oh, we allus lallygag when we git together, me V 
 Cynthy does. Lord, think ! two hull days o' it !" He 
 cut a caper and tumbled back against the wall. 
 
 " Well, keep yer hair on," advised his mother, sharply. 
 " I'm glad I won't have to watch yer kerflummidoodlin' 
 I should go ravin' wild. But yer dad won't mind." 
 
 " Oh, dad '11 be too busy with the jag o' his life to think 
 o' any one else. No he won't mind !" 
 
 On the evening before the journey Abiathar came to 
 Emma Webster mysteriously. 
 
 " He has got a scar on his forrid," he declared. 
 
 She faced him with a wild look. 
 
 "He? who?" 
 
 "Ye 'member ye ast me if he had? 'N' I told ye I 
 didn't know. But yistiddy " 
 
 " Ye mean Reuben Reuben Goodell ?"
 
 116 
 
 Abiathar frowned. 
 
 " I mean Tom Taylor. Ye can't a-fergot it !" 
 
 " I 'member now. I 'member I ast ye," said Emma, in 
 an altered tone. 
 
 Abiathar puffed out his pimpled cheeks as if blowing 
 a trumpet, then let out his breath slowly. 
 
 "I seen it when he was washin' his mug down to 
 Beanston's yistiddy a scatterin' scar, purple with white 
 edges. Looked like the one Sim Maccord useter have 
 Bloody Sim they called 'im. His head was cut open 
 with a knife clean to the bone, 'n' he got into 'nother 
 scrape 'fore it healed up, 'n' it was tore open ag'in, 'n' 
 that's what made it so jagged. Tom Taylor's looks like 
 that." 
 
 He was going on at length, but was startled by a moan- 
 ing sound from his companion. 
 
 " 'Biathar, 'Biathar !" she repeated, faintly, as his eyes 
 met hers. She had sunk into a chair and was pale to 
 the lips. 
 
 " Be ye sick ?" he asked, in alarm. 
 
 She stared at him dumbly. 
 
 " Shall I call mother ?" 
 
 " No no !" She lifted her arm over the back of the 
 chair for support, and presently sat erect with a wavering 
 movement. " There, now I'm better. I reckon I better 
 go 'n' lay down fer a spell. No, don't tell yer mother." 
 
 " But if ye're sick " 
 
 " I ain't sick. It ain't nothin'. I hain't been quite 
 myself fer a while back ye've heerd me say so. See, I 
 kin walk now I'm quite well." A n d she tottered away. 
 
 " Queer," murmured Abiathar. '* Darn queer. But 
 that's the way wimmin is," he added, brightly, in a tone
 
 117 
 
 which reconciled all differences. And he went out 
 through the shed, scraping his throat lustily with the 
 song, " He's gone, he's gone, he's gone to the devil en- 
 tirely !" 
 
 When the wagon was at the door, and the dogs had 
 been shut up in the shed, and the list of purchases had 
 been traced with difficulty to the left hip-pocket of Mr. 
 Irish's overalls (which were to remain at home), there 
 ensued ten minutes of shrieking between Mrs. Irish and 
 the occupants of the wagon before it could be clearly es- 
 tablished that nothing had been forgotten. And when 
 at last they started, the old woman turned to Emma with 
 a bitter smile. 
 
 u D' ye know who Zury reckons is the greates' man in 
 Donhaly City ?" 
 
 Emma shook her head. 
 
 " It's Joe Conklin, what keeps the Stick-in-it down 
 there. 'N' Zury worships great men. He wears out the 
 knees o' his pants afore 'em. Ye'll see fer yerself to- 
 morrer night, when he gits home." 
 
 " Tom Taylor '11 be over this arternoon," said Julius, 
 lingering a moment before going out to the barn. 
 
 " Tom Taylor ? Who next ? What fer ? Who wants 
 'im?" 
 
 "I sent fer 'im to look at the red cayuse. They's 
 suthin' the matter with the left forrard foot 't I can't 
 seem to git at. He's a master hoss-doctor, Beanston 
 says. I reckon he'll be 'ere 'long 'bout four-five o'clock." 
 
 " 'N' empty, o' course." All the ranchmen of Mrs. 
 Irish's acquaintance had the " accommodating entrails " 
 of Gil Bias, and she based her estimate of strangers on 
 the data of her long experience. " Emmy, if ye don't
 
 118 
 
 mind havin' supper a leetle airlier fer this wunst 
 Great sufferin' ! where's Emmy ?" 
 
 But Emma was nowhere to be seen. 
 
 " She's got the queerest way o' skippin' out lately," 
 muttered the old woman. " She comes V goes like the 
 shadder on the wall !" 
 
 Tom Taylor came over at the appointed time. He was 
 a powerful man, and but for his long neck might have 
 passed for a professional pugilist. There was something 
 mysterious in his make-up a reserve of wickedness, per- 
 haps, which suggested a little of Lara and a great deal of 
 the devil. His perfectly horizontal black eyes alternate- 
 ly evaded and defied ; they were shifty, suspicious ; and 
 when he closed them slowly one was never sure what 
 would be their mood on reopening. His hair, black and 
 glossy, was parted low on one side, and hung in a stiff, 
 waving tuft over his forehead. His eyebrows were 
 strongly marked near the nose, but degenerated into 
 scattering patches at the outer extremities, and disap- 
 peared in a hard, flat expanse of temple where no vein 
 was visible. His whole range of facial expression lay 
 within the range of selfishness, and even his pleasures 
 might be forecast as cruel. His entire exterior testified 
 to a brooding nature, at once passionate and calculating. 
 He was handsome in a way, but it was a way which put 
 people on their guard. 
 
 " Well, Wooly, ole boy, how air ye ?" was his greet- 
 ing to Julius. " How d' ye stack up this arternoon ?" 
 He had a soft, hoarse voice, expressing just now a sort 
 of deprecating boisterousness. In speaking he drew 
 back his chin, and looked out furtively from beneath 
 his scraggy brows.
 
 119 
 
 Julius took the proffered hand gravely, but did not re- 
 turn the oral greeting. " The corral's aroun' this side," 
 he said, leading the way towards the corner of the house. 
 
 Taylor's eyes had a disagreeable way of turning slight- 
 ly inward when he was displeased, and they did this 
 now ; at the same time a scowl pulled his eyebrows to- 
 gether, but left his forehead singularly smooth and serene. 
 
 They had to pass Emma Webster's window, and Ju- 
 lius noticed that the curtain was down. " I wonder if 
 she's sick ?" he thought. " I 'member seein' 'er leave the 
 kitchen a hour ago." 
 
 She was not sick, but she lay on the bed with her face 
 buried in the pillows and her hands clasped clamp-like 
 over her ears. 
 
 Even then she knew when they had passed the win- 
 dow. She had neither heard nor seen them she knew 
 it by an inward sense which she did not try to name. 
 When they were gone, she turned a little so that she 
 could look out into the yellow twilight of the room. The 
 afternoon sun shot straight through the thin calico cur- 
 tain and filled the place with an aerial amber glow. Her 
 few plain garments a dark worsted dress, a sun-bonnet, 
 and shawl lay flat as shadows against the wall. The 
 rickety old stand looked like some half-starved quadru- 
 ped tottering feebly on its four legs. A bit of sewing 
 hung down over the edge of the stand, and a gleam of 
 hard gray light made the needle visible where she had 
 stuck it in. 
 
 A crowing cock asserted himself in the direction of 
 the barn. He did not repeat the cry, and she forgot it, 
 closing her eyes and listening with a vacant dread to the 
 melodious sighing of the wind in the pines and the
 
 120 
 
 fragmentary music of the water. She was not distinct- 
 ly conscious of anything not even of herself; her 
 thoughts passed vaguely not as thoughts, but as phan- 
 tasms; faint instincts, pale memories of danger, such as 
 might come to some animal that does its thinking with 
 its spine. " Where was I when I seen Reuben Goodell 
 last? He was p'intin' me out to the p'liceman down 
 to Donhaly City. No no; I never seen 'im in Colly- 
 raydo. Oh, I 'member now. The river looked so slick 
 'n' sly so smooth V deep. I run almos' into it afore 
 I knowed down there to Moab. It whirled round 
 the bar in muddy eddies its noise seemed to come 
 from low down in its throat. 'N' the prairie was covered 
 with wheat-fields, 'n' they was blue mist all 'long the 
 Missoury Valley, almost hidin' the Nebrasky shore." 
 She arose restlessly, drew the curtain, and looked out. 
 Clouds were trailing their slow length along the pines, and 
 frothing over the naked cottonwoods into the gulches. 
 The mountains looked remote and sad ; the wind intoned 
 monotonously ; the water moved with a sort of talkative 
 apathy, and seemed trying to keep itself forcibly awake. 
 The shadows of the rocks by the spring had a dull, car- 
 bonaceous glister; their high -lights looked indistinct, 
 with a plush-like shimmer. The silence was so complete 
 that she could hear the level sunbeams on the roof, her 
 own blood flowing, her own thoughts working. Should 
 she cry out and shatter the stillness crash into it with 
 wild shrieking, as glass is broken by hurled stones ? She 
 passed her hand along the window-sill ; it made a rasp- 
 ing noise, so loud that she drew back, startled ; then the 
 silence heaved in towards her as before. She did not 
 resist it now, but let it pour over and submerge her.
 
 121 
 
 Silence everywhere ; sight, hearing, touch, all avenues of 
 communication with the outside world closed, barred, 
 sealed ; herself a sentient atom, quivering, tense, irrita- 
 ble, expecting something, she knew not what a vision, 
 perhaps a voice, a blow. It was a moment when clair- 
 audience was possible. She listened as if expecting a 
 message from the air. 
 
 " All that are able to go forth to war in Israel." 
 
 The words dropped into her mind suddenly, without 
 warning, from nowhere. She came to herself with a 
 start, making the effort to remember why they seemed 
 so familiar. They were from the Bible; yes, and they 
 had come to her once before. Were they a warning 
 an admonition ? " All that are able to go forth to war in 
 Israel." Did they mean that she was to go forth from 
 this place and fight out the battle of life elsewhere ? 
 She had not so construed them the other time. She be- 
 lieved in miracles, in the direct interposition of God. 
 She listened for guiding voices, and heard them fre- 
 quently in the strained silence which followed earnest 
 prayer. She could not account for them, except to 
 ascribe them to God. They transcended reason as the 
 mystic flight of melody transcends law. 
 
 " If it's reely Reuben Goodell, I'll know what to do," 
 she thought. " I'll make shore I'll go 'n' see." She 
 flung on her sun-bonnet and hastened out. 
 
 It was growing chilly ; the setting sun drew out the 
 internal shadows of the hills. The mountains rose indis- 
 tinctly, like the unsubstantial shapes of some magic 
 world. The mists were dissolving into faint pink vapor 
 among the pines, but lay heavy and white above the 
 water in the gulches. She rounded the corner of the
 
 122 
 
 house, crossed the rivulet from the spring, ascended the 
 slope to the rocks, and climbed to their summit. From 
 there she could overlook the corral, herself unseen. 
 
 Even then she did not look. The human, cowardly 
 instinct to slink into the rear of the .truth overcame her, 
 and she crouched down upon the rocks, closing her eyes 
 hard. When at last she looked out, it was not towards the 
 corral. She noticed with a dull apathy how the pines 
 softened the hard gray outlines of the foot-hills, how a 
 fringe of cloud hung unsteadily above some distant 
 woods, how the gulches were becoming more and more 
 thickly mantled in mist. She turned her eyes towards 
 the zenith, and held them there till her brain began to 
 swim ; when she looked again at things upon a level 
 with her eyes, objects advanced and retreated, swayed 
 and plunged, as if lifted on great waves. " I shall die 
 if I don't make shore it's him," she thought, coldly. 
 And she tried to summon up will-power sufficient to 
 turn her eyes towards the corral. She fastened her gaze 
 upon a tree near the barn, and held it there with the as- 
 siduity of fixed purpose. From there she wrenched her 
 eyes towards the corral, and stared at the horses inside. 
 
 The red cay use had been driven into a corner and was 
 standing quite still, only turning its head with a sniffing 
 inquiry towards a man who was bending over and ex- 
 amining its left fore-foot. The man's back was tow- 
 ards Emma Webster, but the long, muscular neck was 
 visible, as well as the outline of a square, cruel jaw, 
 such as she knew could belong only to one man in all 
 the world. She had before seen precisely that move- 
 ment of the prominent wrist bones, while the heavy 
 hands manipulated a horse's foot with the broken blade
 
 123 
 
 of a pocket-knife. No need to see the face. She sank 
 down upon the rocks with a low moan, and lay there, 
 quivering. 
 
 The night settled heavily ; the wind blew down from 
 the summits with a sharp, succinct cry. The clouds 
 shook out their air -spun garments, hurried down the 
 ridges with fantastic movements, and hid away in the 
 gulches and canons. The air contracted as it grew dark ; 
 it compressed the rocks and trees into shapeless mass- 
 es meaningless outlines without individuality. Strange 
 sounds went rippling across each other through the up- 
 per air Orphic murmurs, maniacal harmonies. Lumi- 
 nous clusters of stars shook out through the darkness, 
 and the peaks looked ghostly and dim. Tom Taylor 
 had declined the invitation to remain to dinner, and had 
 gone back to Beanston's ; Julius had foddered the home 
 cattle, and had just risen from his milking to carry the 
 last foaming pail to the house. At the barn door he 
 paused a moment to wonder if he had forgotten any- 
 thing. 
 
 "Julius!" 
 
 He started and listened. There was no sound but the 
 warning voice of the wind, and the echoes of the water 
 beating back from the walls of the canon with flagging 
 wings. He could see nothing but the shapeless foot-hills 
 and the mountains looming dimly through the gathering 
 shades. 
 
 " Julius ! Julius !" 
 
 The cry was shrill with terror. "That's mother's 
 voice," he said, starting for the house on a run. 
 
 The old woman had dragged herself to the shed door, 
 and was crouching there on her knees.
 
 134 
 
 " Where's Emmy ?" she called out before he reached 
 her. 
 
 " Emmy ?" he repeated, blankly. "Ain't she here ?" 
 
 " She went out torrards the spring two hours ago ; I 
 seen 'er pass the corner." 
 
 " Ain't she in 'er room ?" 
 
 " No ; I've called fer 'er till I'm hoarse. Oh, Julius, 
 d' ye reckon she's gone back to Donhaly City ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Look fer 'er look fer 'er !" cried the old woman, 
 frantically. 
 
 He lifted her back in her chair, then ran out. A sense 
 of tragedy was in the very air. " Emmy !" he called 
 " Emmy ! Emmy !" He could only think that one word, 
 and his voice reproduced it mechanically. Material 
 things exhibit different qualities under different tests, 
 and in his dread the sky was a threat, the water in the 
 canon whispered of death. " Emmy ! Emmy !" The 
 echoes repeated the word in tones of sullen fear. 
 
 Where should he look first? For a little space his 
 mind refused to act it was like a ship in a storm. 
 Then he hurried to the spring ; she was not there. The 
 bubbling waters shook as with secret laughter, and the 
 stars were reflected from the restless surface like dizzy 
 eyes. He ran to the barn and looked in ; nothing was 
 to be seen but shadows, nothing to be heard but the 
 stamp of an occasional hoof and the deep sighing breath 
 of cattle at rest. At the door of the dugout in the side 
 of the hill the blackness kept him out like a wedge 
 thrust forward. He struck a match, half expecting to 
 find her lying on the floor among the barrels, dead. But 
 there was nothing. The match flickered and went out ;
 
 125 
 
 the darkness rushed together where the light had been. 
 He had no time to stop and think no time even for de- 
 spair. He ran round the corral, still calling, then to the 
 edge of the canon and looked down. The depths seemed 
 full of ink and running over into the small lateral gulches ; 
 no sound rose but the wailing of the pines and the cease- 
 less iteration of the water. The bare, bleak cottonwoods 
 looked hard and stiff as if cast in iron, and the mountains 
 rose like crumpled heaps of moonlight. 
 
 " I could see farther from the top o' the rocks by the 
 spring," he thought; and he leaped up, his breast pant- 
 ing, his body one great throb of fear. On the summit 
 the flutter of her dress caught his eye. He rushed for- 
 ward with a sinking heart. She was lying prone upon 
 her face, the lines of her figure singularly stiff and stark. 
 For a moment a great blackness veiled his eyes a black- 
 ness through which whirled this vision involved in black- 
 er night. " She is dead !" was his thought. He stooped 
 forward and gathered her in his arms. She lay quite 
 passive, her head and one arm falling back. In this way 
 he carried her to the house. 
 
 The old woman shrieked out at sight of him, and no 
 wonder. His face was distorted with anguish and fear. 
 
 " She's dead !" he said, not understanding his own 
 words ; and he stood gazing down at the pale face with 
 stricken helplessness. 
 
 " Dead !" The old woman leaned forward in her chair, 
 motionless. She was the first to collect her thoughts. 
 
 " Lay 'er down afore the fire V fetch the brandy," she 
 commanded. Julius obeyed, his features lighting with 
 the effort of trying to do something. He poured spoon- 
 ful after spoonful of the liquid fire down the girl's throat,
 
 126 
 
 while his mother chafed her wrists and temples. At last 
 there was a spasmodic contraction of the muscles of her 
 throat, then she stirred faintly. 
 
 " There !" said the old woman, settling back. 
 
 Emma Webster opened her eyes with a vacant stare. 
 
 " Thank God !" cried Julius, drawing her head upon 
 his knees and kissing her. His mother was sobbing hys- 
 terically behind her hands. 
 
 The girl stirred feebly before she spoke. Then, with 
 an effort, " Why, what is it, Julius ? Be I sick ?" 
 
 " We thought ye was dead," he answered, with con- 
 vulsed features. 
 
 She took in his words slowly and then smiled. 
 
 "I'm better now. So he didn't tell ye, Julius?" 
 
 " Tell me ? who ?" 
 
 " Ye wouldn't a-kissed me if he'd told ye. Or did I 
 dream it ? Ye kissed me, didn't ye, jes' 's I woke up ?" 
 
 "Who d' ye mean by he?" 
 
 " Reuben Goodell out in the corral." 
 
 " She's out o' 'er head," declared Mrs. Irish. 
 
 " Reuben Goodell ?" questioned Julius. " 'Twas Tom 
 Taylor 'twas with me in the corral." 
 
 " Yes ; Tom Taylor." 
 
 She sank back, closing her eyes against the firelight. 
 
 " Ye ain't hadyer supper !" she cried,with a sudden start. 
 
 " Supper !" snorted the old woman. 
 
 " I'll see to that," said Julius, reassuringly. 
 
 " I do b'lieve she'd be thinkin' o' our supper if she 
 was on the way to glory this minute," declared Mrs. 
 Irish, wiping her eyes. 
 
 " Why, kin you git supper ?" said Emma, opening her 
 eyes and smiling.
 
 127 
 
 " Jes' wait 'n' see !" 
 
 " 'N' Torn Taylor " 
 
 " He went back to Beanston's long ago." 
 
 She lay quiet for a little, then began to stir restlessly. 
 
 " Julius !" she whispered. 
 
 For answer he took her hand. 
 
 " Did did ye ever commit a sin a crime ?" 
 
 He stared at her, doubting her sanity. 
 
 " No end o' sins," he answered. 
 
 " But never a crime?" 
 
 "Not 't I know of." 
 
 " Ye'd know it if ye had. It 'ud foller ye it wouldn't 
 let ye rest." 
 
 Again she was silent. 
 
 " Did ye ever read that story 'bout the blood-hounds 
 't they useter track runaway slaves with, Julius ?" 
 
 " Yes ; Uncle Tom's Cabin, ye mean ?" 
 
 "Well, a body's crimes is like them dretful beasts. 
 They're allus on yer track, 'n' sooner or later they'll 
 hunt ye down." She rallied herself with an effort. "I 
 reckon I kin walk now. See, if ye'll let me lean on ye, 
 I can git to my room." The task was accomplished 
 with difficulty, for she would not let him carry her ; but 
 as she said good-night she drew his face down to- hers. 
 
 " If Tom Taylor tells ye, ye'll be just to me, Julius ? 
 ' Judge righteously between every man 'n' his brother,' 
 the Bible says. I love ye, dear, so much so much. 
 'N' so good-night !"
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 THE next morning Emma Webster was too ill to rise. 
 " I'll be stronger if I kin rest fer a little," she said, 
 wistfully. 
 
 " Rest, dear only rest," said Julius. 
 
 " I couldn't walk fur now, could I ? I'd fall down 
 by the way. Kin ye see the green hills the green 
 hills, Julius ? They're a long way off, but I'll be hopeful 
 'n' press on through the mud V mire." He thought 
 her mind was wandering, and stood stroking her hand 
 with unavailing pity. " I'll find stren'th to do the 
 will o' the Lord," she added, with a long sigh. " Ye 
 want me to do the will o' the Lord, Julius?" 
 
 " Yes when ye makes sure it's His will." 
 
 " It ain't a question o' happiness, is it ? But it may 
 lead to happiness in the next world. God save us ! Joy 
 sometimes bows us 's low 's sorrer we're like the 
 flowers in summer rain. Ye won't let him in to see me ?" 
 She started up with a cry of fear. 
 
 " No, no ; I won't let 'im in. It's Tom Taylor ye mean ?" 
 
 " Does he know I'm here?" 
 
 " I doubt if he's ever heard o' ye." 
 
 " Oh, he's heerd o' me he's a bad man, Julius. He 
 ain't what he pertends to be. I can't face him ; he'd 
 p'int me out to the p'lice. 'All that are able to go 
 forth to war in Israel.' Why should I fear the sons of 
 Anakim ? I'll go I'll go !"
 
 "She don't sense what she's savin','' said Mrs. Irish, 
 whose chair had been brought to Emma's bedside. 
 
 " Poor little gal," murmured Julius as he left the room. 
 
 She lay silent for some time. 
 
 "D' ye reckon we make our own lives," she finally 
 asked, " or is God responsible ?" She was lying with 
 wide-open, languid eyes. 
 
 " I shouldn't wonder if 'twas a little o' both," was the 
 old woman's answer. 
 
 " Yes ; God's grace makes it a little o' both, that's 
 true. But He gives us our chances we take 'em or 
 throw 'em away. Childhood's only the ploughin' time ; 
 the plantin' 'n' harvest comes later." 
 
 The little sheet-iron stove, rusty from long disuse, 
 had been set up in the room, and a long, red bar of light 
 extended out from the damper in front. 
 
 " It's so pleasant," said Emma, restfully. " 'N' Julius 
 is so good to me !" She turned on her pillow so that 
 she could look into the old woman's eyes. 
 
 " He's the best man on this airth, even if he ain't a 
 perfessor," declared his mother. 
 
 " He's brave even in that," the girl said. " They's 
 many a one 't can't b'lieve 'n' don't dare to disb'lieve." 
 She tossed her hands about nervously. " D' ye know 
 what 'tis to be happy ?" she suddenly asked. 
 
 " No," was the grim answer. 
 
 " Not even in yer thoughts ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Not 's much 's to git a glimpse o' yer happiness slip- 
 pin' away from ye 'fore ye had time to clutch it ?" 
 
 " Happiness never come clost 'nough to me even fer 
 that."
 
 130 
 
 Emma opened her eyes wide. 
 
 " Ye're more mis'able 'n what I be, then," she declared. 
 " That one glimpse it's heaven ! But it's slippin' away ; 
 it's slippin' away !" 
 
 " Better grab it 'n' hang on hang on like it was yer 
 life !" 
 
 "Oh, I kin live on 'thout it the Lord '11 gimme 
 stren'th. I ain't made no fuss 'bout my love for Julius, 
 have I? I ain't troubled nobody I ain't groaned 'n' 
 took on ? But deep love runs quiet oh, I love 'im with 
 every breath I draw ! Sometimes sometimes my heart 
 '11 show it to me hereafter, jes' like it was ; not often 
 that 'ud be too bitter." 
 
 " I can't hear," said the old woman, bending forward. 
 Emma's voice had sunk very low. 
 
 " God be good to us all !" cried the girl, closing her 
 eyes. 
 
 At noon she was better, and asked Julius to lift the 
 curtain, that she might look out. 
 
 "Why, it's the fall o' the year," she said, with sur- 
 prise. "Yes, I 'member now late in September. Let 
 me think !" 
 
 She lay with her face towards the window, gazing out 
 at the white peaks, which lay like anchored thunderheads. 
 Gradually her eyes lowered. 
 
 "The cotton woods is all bare, 'n' the snow is creepin' 
 down," she said. "I 'member when the leaves was 
 thick 'n' green, 'n' they was sunflowers all 'long the 
 slope d' ye mind how fine 'twas when I fust came ? 
 But now see, they ain't nothin' but gray weeds 'n' bare 
 branches. Tell me, Julius, is the world only made for 
 glimpses o' happiness a place where things grows up
 
 131 
 
 in beauty, then rush on to meet death ? Lovely things 
 die, but ugly things live on ; is it doubtin' God to say 
 so, when a body 's in despair ? Lift me up a little so ; 
 now I kin see the pines, 'n' watch the shadders stream- 
 in' down the slopes. Let me think o' it like 'twas in 
 June." 
 
 " She's better," the old woman whispered, noticing 
 how quietly she rested. 
 
 Emma looked up at her and smiled. 
 
 " Yes, ever so much better," she answered. " Fer 
 now my mind's made up." And she closed her eyes 
 and lay motionless. 
 
 " Julius," she said again, " I've been thinkin o' the 
 beauty o' the mountains 'n' the glory o' the summer 
 we've lived together ; but that ain't the best o' my stay 
 'ere. Shall I tell ye what was the best 2" 
 
 " Yes, do." 
 
 She reached out and put her hand in his, seeming to 
 delight in his strong, loving clasp. 
 
 " 'N' yer mother shall hear it now. Why should I 
 keep it to myself? It's all settled 'n' over. It's the 
 home I found here, 'n' the love 't found me that was 
 the best ! My heart cries out fer ye, Julius, 'n', wrong 
 or not, I hain't the stren'th to still it. Love me, Julius 
 only love me, no matter what comes ; love me like I'll 
 allus love you " 
 
 " Allus ?" he questioned, tenderly. 
 
 " Allus 's sure 's death. Don't leave me, dear not 
 even when I sleep. It's such a little while till till I git 
 well ag'in." 
 
 The old woman spoke up sharply : 
 
 " Well, if ye love each other, why in the name o' sense
 
 132 
 
 don't ye go down to the city V git tied up afore the 
 snow sets in ? They's time 'nough." 
 
 Emma did not answer. Her face was convulsed with 
 suffering, but the old woman did not dare to comfort her. 
 
 " She won't die !" whispered Julius, fiercely, to his 
 mother. " God wouldn't let such a thing happen !" 
 
 " No !" she answered, as fiercely. And each stared at 
 the other as if defying the Infinite in person. 
 
 Julius went to the window and looked out. Every- 
 where the stoic indifference of mountain, brook, and 
 wind ; the same luminous rebound of sunshine from yel- 
 low rocks, the same melody in the overflow of the spring. 
 
 The afternoon wore away. Again the manifold shad- 
 ows of the hills crept out upon the world ; the mountains 
 loomed darkly against the huge distant bonfire of the 
 sun. What was it that troubled the time? A thought? 
 a fear ? Is Death possible to Love ? Is the caress of 
 passionate desire but the touch of cold lips which press 
 ours in passing, and then are dust ? 
 
 Julius turned away from the sunset, his mind chilled 
 and confused as if a north wind had blown through it. 
 He drew down the curtain, lighted a candle, and went 
 out to his milking. 
 
 " Emmy," said the old woman, softly, when they were 
 alone. 
 
 The girl opened her eyes. 
 
 " Was ye 'sleep ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Ye laid so still" 
 
 " I was thinkin'." 
 
 "Ye've laid jes' so all the arternoon 's white 's a 
 painted picter. Ye're sure ye ain't got no pain ?"
 
 133 
 
 " No pain nothin' but thoughts." 
 
 " 'N' they ain't nothin' I could do ?" 
 
 " No, nothin'." 
 
 " Not even if I knowed what ye're thinkin' 'bout ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Do I worry ye by talkin' ?" 
 
 " Worry me !" The negative was emphasized by a 
 look. 
 
 " Ye're willin' I should go on even if I show I kerry 
 my gall with me ?" 
 
 Emma smiled. 
 
 " Ye couldn't be onkind to me." 
 
 "I couldn't mean to. Ye may b'lieve it it's the 
 God's truth. 'N' it's my love for ye 't forces me to 
 speak up. What's the use o' goin' on like this? Tell 
 me yer troubles, 'n' let me help ye. If jawin' could do 
 anything, I might be a power o' good. I know ye ain't 
 committed a crime ye couldn't harm a fly.. What's the 
 matter, then ? What 'a' ye done ?" 
 
 Emma's head gradually drooped lower on the pillow. 
 
 " Tell me ! Was it a crime 't drove ye 'way from 
 home ?" 
 
 " Yes." Her voice was very low. 
 
 The old woman caught her breath. 
 
 " I don't b'lieve it !" The words might have been 
 uttered by a steel trap. 
 
 " A crime o' yer own doin' ?" she added, a moment 
 after. 
 
 Emma hesitated. Her face contracted strongly. 
 
 " Yes," she answered. 
 
 " I don't b'lieve a word o' it !" This time the dis- 
 claimer went off like a gun.
 
 134 
 
 " It's true all the same. I planned it I thought it 
 out on dark nights. 'N' then I done it." 
 
 Again they were silent. The cottonwoods sent a 
 shrill, nerve-shaking rustle through the air as the wind 
 stirred them. The water in the gulch lashed the rocks 
 with sudden fury. It was as if the Eumenides were at 
 work down there. 
 
 " But a crime, Emmy ! Don't magnify a fault into a 
 crime ! Say it's a fault, dear ; ye're shore ye're right in 
 callin' it a crime ? Think a crime means well, say 
 murder " 
 
 Sh sh sh !" 
 
 Emma Webster flung herself forward, her face white 
 with terror. 
 
 " If Julius 'd a-heerd that " 
 
 " But a crime ! No, it can't be. Ain't I had my 
 eyes on ye every minute sence las' June ? Couldn't I a- 
 seen " 
 
 Emma Webster laughed. It was like the rattle in 
 the throat of a dying woman. 
 
 " They's other crimes 'n that that 'un 't ye spoke 
 about. They's heaps o' crimes ! The newspapers is full 
 o' 'em " 
 
 " Then ye won't tell me ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Nor Julius, nuther ?" 
 
 " Him least o' all !" 
 
 " He loves ye, Emmy. He orter know." 
 
 "'N' I want 'im to love me that's why I can't tell. 
 He'd hate me ferever. He'd run from me like I had the 
 plague !" 
 
 It was late when Abiathar and his father came home.
 
 135 
 
 The old man was moaning and singing by turns. He 
 was got into bed without delay, and, after disposing of 
 the horses for the night, Abiathar came into the room 
 where Emma was lying. 
 
 " Ye got the flannel fer our new petticoats?" was Mrs. 
 Irish's first question. 
 
 Abiathar nodded. 
 
 " Emmy sick ?" he asked. 
 
 " Looks like it, don't it ? 'N' the agate buttons I bet 
 a hen ye fergot 'em !" 
 
 " They're in the bundle 'long o' the flannel. Much 
 sick ?" 
 
 " Better now. 'N' my winter stogies " 
 
 " I got everything." He paused a moment, while a 
 slow grin overspread his features, and his eye lighted up 
 with a communicative gleam. " I got suthin' ye didn't 
 send me fer, too suthin' ye didn't expeck. 'N' ye'll 
 howl, I know but I don't give a darn !" 
 
 " Well, what ye been foolin' yer money 'way on now ? 
 Green V yaller neckties ? Nuts 'n' taffy ?" 
 
 Abiathar drew himself up, and blurted forth with none 
 of the saving restrictions of art : 
 
 " Mother, I've got a wife !" 
 
 The old woman's jaw fell. "She's goin' to stan' up 
 to it quiet," Abiathar thought. But a moment after she 
 flung up both hands and screeched. 
 
 " Quit yer yellin'," she commanded, evidently believ- 
 ing that the noise came from her son. " Don't ye see 't 
 Emmy's sick in bed 'n' sufferin' 1 What d' ye mean by 
 tootin' up like that? A wife ! oh, Lord ! Cynthy 
 Bcanston !" 
 
 " Who else ? Shall I tell ye 'bout it ?"
 
 " No, I don't want to hear a word I won't hear a 
 word ! Did she wear that blue check gingham with the 
 pink headin' to the ruffle ? It 'ud be jes' like 'er to go 
 to 'er own marryin' in that rig. 'N' a sun-bunnit, I bet 
 couldn't she skeer out a hat from nowheres ? Well, 
 what's become o' her ? I shouldn't wonder if she was 
 out a-hangin' round the barns till ye told the news if 
 she is, ye kin tell 'er to stay there. / won't see 'er !" 
 
 " She got off to Rothschild's bridge V walked hum. 
 I'd a-went with 'er, only dad couldn't drive." He twist- 
 ed one inflexible leg around the bed-post and went on. 
 " Ye see, dad was havin' his fun down to Conklin's " 
 
 " I'd have 'im sent to the jag-cure if he was wuth 
 savin'," snapped the old woman. 
 
 " Well, while he was gittin' on his overload o' moun- 
 tain dew, Cynthy V me we walked aroun' V viewed the 
 sights. They was a boy on the corner sellin' double- 
 j'inted, eddicated peanuts, V I took stock in a couple o' 
 little sacks, V Cynthy V me sot down on the edge o' the 
 sidewalk 'n' commenced to eat. 
 
 " Then I put a pertater-bug in Cynthy's ear. 
 
 " Says I, ' I know where they's a justice o' the peace !' 
 
 " 'What's that?' says she. I reckon she 'lowed 'twas 
 suthin' more to eat. 
 
 " ' He's the feller 't marries folks,' says I. 
 
 " ' Oh,' says she, ' I 'lowed 'twas the preacher done 
 that.' 
 
 " Then I tole 'er how 'twas." Abiathar had become 
 excited with his narrative, and stood erect, a quivering 
 mass of garrulous futility. " ' Come on,' says I, ' let's 
 go down to Justice Craven's 'n' git spliced. We'll never 
 have a better chance.'
 
 137 
 
 " ' Let's finish the peanuts fust,' says she. 
 
 " ' No, now,' says I. 
 
 " ' Oh, Ian' !' says she. Ye know how a gal 'ud act. 
 
 " ' Oh, ye needn't cal'late on Tom Taylor,' says I. ' He 
 may fool 'roun', but he never '11 ast ye.' 
 
 " ' I've thort o' that,' says she, kinder doubtful. ' But 
 wot if I found out arterwards he meant to have me ?' 
 
 " 'Anyways,' says I, ' I orter have ye. I ast fust.' 
 
 " ' That's so,' says she. ' Fust come, fust served.' 'N' 
 with that we sailed in on the justice, 'n' now they ain't 
 but one o' us I'm a married man !" 
 
 " Fools, fools !" cried the old woman. 
 
 " Oh, we're hunkidori in a box !" declared the bride- 
 groom. " 'Sides, ye tole me I might, afore winter, 'n' 
 this was the las' chance. 'N' Cynthy 'n' me, we've laid our 
 heads together 'n' got things fixed up fer the two ranch- 
 es to the queen's taste. I'm to go to Beanston's, 'n' Tom 
 Taylor's to come over 'ere jes' change about, see ? Ain't 
 that gay ?" 
 
 " Orfle gay !" assented his mother, with irony. " Oh, 
 orfle gay !" 
 
 " 'N' that '11 keep 'im away from Cynthy, too, ye see 
 oh, I've got my wits in my head, if I allus have been 
 called a fool ! I won't have no long-haired cubs a-dan- 
 glin' aroun' arter my wife. I'd I'd " 
 
 "Ye do talk like a real married man," scoffed his 
 mother. " Oh, 'Biathar, they ain't no use tryin' to hide 
 it ye be all kinds o' a fool ! Well, g'long afore I give 
 ye a top-cut in the neck with the poker. What a world ! 
 what a world !" 
 
 The room was silent for a little while after Abiathar's 
 exit.
 
 138 
 
 " He'd make the angels swear !" was the old woman's 
 final comment. 
 
 " So Tom Taylor's comin' over to take 'JBiathar's place?" 
 Emma asked. 
 
 " We've got to have some 'un. Three men 's little 
 'nough to chase strayed cattle in winter. 'N' then 
 they's the quicksands down torrards the river. We have 
 to watch them quicksands like they was the light o' our 
 eyes. We've lost 'nough cattle there a'ready to stock 
 two-three Eastern farms. 'N' no one man kin stan' it 
 to be out long to a time they have to take turns ; ye 
 don't know what a freeze-out we do have in winter. 'N' 
 Zury ain't the man he useter be, nohow." 
 
 " Then he'll come V that's right." Emma lay quiet 
 for a little space. " Han' me my Bible from the stan' 
 draw', will ye? Thankee. ' N' push the candle this 
 way." 
 
 She opened the book at random and read : 
 
 " The Lord our God spoke unto us in Horeb, saying, 
 Ye have dwelt long enough in this mount." She closed 
 the book silently and lay back. The old woman thought 
 it was the candlelight that made her look so pale.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 AT sunrise next morning Abiathar departed for Barb 
 Wire Ranch with all his belongings. Emma was up soon 
 after, getting breakfast. She was quite well, she said, 
 in answer to Mrs. Irish's inquiries. But the old woman 
 noticed with anxiety that her cheeks were flushed and 
 her eyes shot forth a feverish sparkle. 
 
 Julius, unskilled in the idiosyncrasies of women, saw 
 her moving about the house with rapture. To his eyes 
 the flush and sparkle indicated renewed vitality, re- 
 covered strength. 
 
 " Ye're all right now, dear ?" he said, holding her by 
 the shoulders and looking down at her. 
 
 She regarded him steadfastly. 
 
 " Yes, all right," was her answer. 
 
 He was to spend the day on the range, and after 
 breakfast he kissed her and started out. His happiness 
 lighted up the autumn world with warm reflections. Was 
 it autumn ? He did not know it. Emma loved him, and 
 she was well again. That was knowledge enough ! 
 
 " She let me kiss 'er right afore mother," he thought, 
 with rapture. And the echoes of his happiness were re- 
 peated about him multitudinously, like voices calling 
 from over the sea. 
 
 At home Emma got out the bread-board and mixing- 
 pan for baking. She made large preparations. 
 
 "Be ye gittin' up supplies fer a army?" the old worn-
 
 140 
 
 an inquired. " Great sufferin' ! that amount o' bread '11 
 last us a month !" 
 
 And Emma answered : 
 
 " Well, they ain't no danger o' its mouldin' in this 
 climate, V it won't dry out if we keep it wrapped up in 
 the big tin box." 
 
 " No," said the old woman, still in wonder. 
 
 " I reckon I better make a lot o' doughnuts, while 
 I got a bakin' fit on. Ye 'member how Julius likes 'em ? 
 They'll keep, too. 'N' if I had the mince-meat cooked, 
 I'd make a batch o' pies. But I'll have to let 'em 
 go !" 
 
 She worked at a white-heat all day. She met the old 
 woman's remonstrances with a strange fixity of the eye 
 upon something remote which it was evident she did not 
 see. " She's got a fever," Mrs. Irish thought. " She 
 ain't 'erself, nohow. But I can't make 'er stop. 'Pears 
 like she was sort o' wild over some idee o' her own." 
 
 Julius came home in time for supper. She met him 
 so eagerly that he was half frightened. 
 
 " What's the matter 1" he inquired, holding her close 
 to his heart for a moment. 
 
 " Matter ?" she answered. " I'm so glad to be with ye, 
 Julius !" 
 
 And with that confession his fears vanished, and he 
 took up once more the happiness which had followed 
 him all day. His day-dreams on the range had been as 
 sweet as slumbers under Italian skies, and the time of 
 awakening had not yet come. 
 
 After supper she said good-night to no one, but crept 
 off to her room unnoticed. The last she saw of the 
 kitchen, Mr. Irish, who had slept all day, was bending
 
 141 
 
 with tremulous studiousness over The Weekly Nerve, a 
 newspaper which he had picked up in Donhala City. 
 Julius was straightening the bent rowel of his spur. The 
 old woman sat gazing intently into the fire, her hands 
 folded, her shoulders drawn forward. 
 
 Emma reached her room and sank down upon the 
 bed. " I shall allus 'member 'em like that," she said to 
 herself. " Oh, Julius, Julius !" 
 
 She lay for some time, thinking. She had felt so safe 
 in this place, so anchored, so far removed from her 
 dreadful past! "It's my sin," she repeated to herself, 
 drearily. " It '11 foller me jes' so wherever I go ; it '11 
 search up V down the world fer me, V find me out." 
 
 She heard the water in the canon below the house 
 mourning, mourning through the dark. " My life '11 run 
 on jes' so in the gloom," she thought. " Many a time I've 
 thanked God for my strong body, but now it seems more 
 a curse, fer I can't die !" Her thoughts began to move 
 heavily, taking up queer threads of her past and connect- 
 ing them with her present. It was old Briggs, who kept 
 a sheep ranch down below Moab, who had once said to 
 her father, " If I was Pf esident o' the United States, 
 wouldn't I raise wool !" The double meaning of the 
 remark had struck her as funny, and she had laughed. 
 But that was when she was a little girl. Her father had 
 once asked old Briggs if a certain- herder was as good a 
 fighter as reports declared. " Yes," was Briggs's answer, 
 " he's the greatest fighter I ever seen with beefsteak." 
 She had laughed at that, too. Why had she laughed? 
 None of those things were funny. 
 
 The noise of the creek reminded her in a chaotic way 
 of the hungry rattle she had heard in the Missouri's
 
 142 
 
 throat while crossing at Wilson's Ferry. She remem- 
 bered how the sunshine fell black on those turbulent, 
 writhing waters; how she had run away from her duties 
 time and again, and sat under the willows, listening to 
 the melancholy flow of that songless, ceaseless river; 
 how she had opened her Bible at random, and prayed 
 insanely for some word of divine approval for her long- 
 ing to fling herself into the driving current, and so find 
 rest from the world. She remembered the days when 
 she had gone about her work with patient anguish, 
 wondering vaguely at the eyes wept dim, at the drawn 
 face bleached white with tears which looked out at her 
 when she passed the looking-glass. What else? The 
 long years through which a growing hate for one who 
 should have been dear to her had worked like slow 
 poison in her veins, had corroded her mind like an acid, 
 eaten its way into the very fibres of intelligence and 
 action; and then, the climax of her dreadful life, the 
 flight from home, the haunted journey across the plains 
 and through the mountains, her walk to Cloud Mountain 
 Ranch, and the welcome she had met there. 
 
 She dozed a little, still thinking vacantly. What was 
 it she had studied in her geography at school how long 
 ago that seemed ! about the dangerous chain of sub- 
 merged rocks extending from Holland to Jutland ? Queer 
 that she should think of that now when the pines were 
 saying good-night to each other and her own heart was 
 breaking. But our sins are like those rocks; we think 
 them sunk forever out of sight, and they are really very 
 near the top, ready to show themselves and threaten at 
 every little disturbance of the surface. If God had only 
 let her die before she learned to crave love and happiness ;
 
 143 
 
 if only she could find death now, without paying there- 
 for the price of her soul ! But her old habit of obedience 
 to the Divine Will roused in her faintly, and flung her 
 thoughts into another groove. " Forgive me, Lord I'll 
 try to be good I'll try, I'll try !" She sank back in 
 self-reproach. " We count so much more on what the 
 world's to give us 'n what we're to give the world ; but 
 I'll learn to think o' others I'll make myself live ac- 
 cordin' to Thy will !" 
 
 She heard Mr. Irish, groaning, stumble off to bed. 
 " It '11 be a long day afore I try to howl the shingles off 
 'm Conklin's roof ag'in," she heard him mutter. " He'll 
 be well by mornin'," she thought. " 'N' then he'll prob'ly 
 keep sober till spring." Then she knew by the trend of 
 Julius's footsteps that he was arranging his mother's 
 blankets about her for the night. " I orter a-done that, 
 but I couldn't, this time. Now he's settin' the keg near 
 'er with the campfire bottle 'n' the cup o' water on it. 
 Now he's coverin' up the fire." She listened eagerly, as 
 if for some good-night message for herself. " Good- 
 night !" her heart said in the loneliness. " Good-night 
 'n' good-bye !" 
 
 Again she dozed while the house grew still. To live 
 on without love it was like gathering up the sweepings 
 of the threshing-floor after the grain has all been carried 
 away. And she had been so happy here so happy ! 
 Is joy always bought with sorrow ? Are tears always 
 the price of happiness ? " I can't be resigned I can't, I 
 can't !" her soul cried out. " Religion ain't enough 
 God ain't enough ; I want 'im, the man 1 love Julius !" 
 
 After an hour she knew they were all asleep, with the 
 possible exception of Mrs. Irish. She rose softly, wrapped
 
 144 
 
 her shawl about her, and drew out a bundle of clothes 
 which she had concealed under the bed. At the window 
 she paused and looked out. Pale vapors were crowding 
 stealthily along the northern horizon, and a faint star or 
 two flared through their misty edges. The night was 
 vocal with low sounds, blending with murmurous indef- 
 initeness. The low, lyric cry of the water might have 
 been a song sung by Alcseus in dreams, staccato and 
 sweet in its abrupt pauses and beginnings. Emma lis- 
 tened, leaning forward against the sash. The pines 
 cried out in the voice of her own soul, mourning a lost, 
 unreturning joy. 
 
 She raised the window softly. A loose sliver in the 
 sash made a shrill, rasping shriek against the casement ; 
 she paused in terror and listened, but nothing was audi- 
 ble in the house but the snoring of the dogs as they lay 
 asleep by the kitchen fire. She tried the sash again, 
 and, by pushing upward obliquely, raised it in silence, 
 and propped it with a stick. Next she tossed the bun- 
 dle to the ground and crawled softly out upon the win- 
 dow-sill. Then she gathered her skirts about her and 
 jumped. 
 
 The distance was nothing, but the shock numbed her 
 for a moment. As she crouched close to the earth she 
 listened again, but nothing was audible from within. 
 "They won't miss me afore mornin'," she thought. 
 " 'N' by that time I'll be in Donhaly City, if I ain't dead 
 by the way." 
 
 She arose, skirted the corner of the house, hurried 
 down the wagon-road she had climbed so doubtfully on 
 that momentous evening of last June, and found herself 
 on the highway which overhung the gulch. Here she sat
 
 145 
 
 down to regain her breath. She was more tired than she 
 knew, and the strain of her emotions was already telling 
 on her severely. 
 
 The depths of the gulch were visible for a little way 
 murky spaces through which drifted ghostly mist- 
 flowers, and up whose sides low noises ran shiveringly. 
 The mountains rose in the moonlight like white thunder, 
 the inky surge of the foot-hills seemed breaking towards 
 her heavy and pendulous, fringed with the black foam of 
 pines. The stars in the mist on the northern horizon 
 shone like silver roses in a woman's gray hair. The 
 moon looked down like a tired white face, and a slope 
 of red sandstone high up had the flower-like softness of 
 a great field red of clover. Things seemed so unreal 
 she could have fancied herself walking abroad in a 
 dream. 
 
 She arose and hurried down the road. At the turn 
 which she knew would hide the ranch buildings from 
 sight she paused and looked back. The silhouette of 
 the little low house rose black against the moonlight ; 
 the rocks by the spring, the corral, the pines looked as if 
 cut out of black pasteboard. A cloud surged over the 
 moon, and blotted out everything ; then passed on, sub- 
 merging the weltering stars, and finally trailing away into 
 nothingness. She could see the house again, and her 
 eyes fixed themselves upon it with an effort of their own 
 with which her will had nothing to do. Surely she was 
 not leaving it all the contented labor, the peace and 
 love which had crowned her life during all these months ! 
 This was not herself going out once more to battle with 
 the big, hard world she was dead, surely, lying face 
 downward upon the bed in her own little room, and this
 
 146 
 
 was her ghost fleeing out forlorn into the vast solitude 
 of the night. 
 
 Something in the wildness of the thought urged her 
 on. She passed the turn in the road without looking 
 back. Here was the long mound, with a pine at its head 
 and another at its foot, which Julius had once pointed 
 out to her as a probable burial-ground of the Utes ; with 
 the moon shining down upon it, it certainly looked 
 grave-like and haunted. Here was the slide of drift, 
 above which Mr. Irish had once, in a spasm of ambitious 
 zeal, started to tunnel the hill in search of gold. Farther 
 on she had taken a walk with Julius late in summer, and 
 gathered rose-hips with queer little warts on them. She 
 paused here to rest again, but betimes she rose and hur- 
 ried on. Her thoughts seemed to form themselves dis- 
 connectedly ; she communed with them, but fragmenta- 
 rily, as if conversing in a foreign tongue. " I won't 
 brood over what I'm leavin' behind," she determined, 
 and tried to prove her resolve by noting the aspect of 
 her surroundings the tattered pennants of clouds float- 
 ing above the pines, the hard black shadows, sunken as 
 by their own weight below the moonlit flood. She kept 
 on thinking with vacant brain ; she tried to disentangle 
 the music of the pines from the noise of the lashing 
 water, which sent cold tremors through the night si- 
 lence. And all the time the habit of her faith was upon 
 her and another set of thoughts was busy with her fut- 
 ure. "They's suthin' in the Bible 'bout good works, 
 but I can't think it out jes' now. Christ forgave the thief 
 on the cross He promised to meet 'im in Paradise. If 
 I was to live pure V spotless the rest o' my life, 'ud the 
 Lord let me into heaven, I wonder? Most folks thinks
 
 147 
 
 too much o' the manner o' their death V too little o' the 
 manner o' their life. But I'll change it aroun'. My Lord 
 is only tryin' me now, jes' like he did wunst afore He 
 wants to see how much I kin bear. Shall I let my own 
 conscience p'int at me V say, ' Doth Job love God fer 
 nought ?' " 
 
 She entered the flat above Corduroy Bridge. There 
 the darkness thickened, but high up the moonlight 
 dropped softly in among the shadows. The wind stirred 
 chilly among dead leaves ; the rocks rose like the unac- 
 countable creatures of one's fancy ; they were subject- 
 ive in their closeness to her thoughts. She remembered 
 stopping here in June, and noting how the thick-leaved 
 water-plants swayed back and forth in the current, and 
 how a spring came filtering down through banks of moss 
 and violets. It had been late in the afternoon then 
 almost dark but she had paused and looked into the 
 quiet pool below the bridge, where the cliffs seemed 
 bending to see themselves reflected against the wander- 
 ing lights of the sunset sky. 
 
 Beyond the bridge and a little way down-stream was 
 a miner's cabin long since abandoned. Its owner's name 
 had been McChesney, and there were wild stories told of 
 his boisterous good-nature and riotous life. He had a 
 breadth of humor which embraced this world and the 
 next, for he shot himself to prove the falsity of a friend's 
 casual remark that McChesney cared more for his own 
 life than for that of his " partner." That was long ago, 
 and the cabin was in ruins now ; some said it was haunt- 
 ed, but Emma did not think of that. " I mus' rest there 
 a minute," she thought, " or I shall drop. The walls '11 
 keep the wind off, if nothin' more. How fur 'd Julius
 
 148 
 
 tell me 'twas from the ranch to this bridge ? Only three 
 mile ? 'N* I'm so tired !" 
 
 As she approached the cabin she was startled by a 
 flickering light in the open door. She paused, drawing 
 back among the pines and listening. A momentary 
 thought of McChesney's ghost crossed her mind, but 
 she cast it aside as nonsense. Then the clash of a ham- 
 mer against metal struck out sharply into the night. She 
 drew a breath of relief. " I 'member now Julius tole 
 me they allus kep' tools 'n' nails V waggin-bolts here, 
 so 't if accidents happen trav'lers kin go in 'n' repair 
 damages. Mebbe it's some 'un on the way to Donhaly 
 City, 'n' they'll gimme a lift. I'll see." 
 
 She crept forward, intending to steal to the door and 
 see who was there before discovering herself. The light 
 wavered out, and was reflected from the half-naked wil- 
 lows ; she could determine its source now a pine torch 
 stuck between two logs in the wall of the cabin, and smok- 
 ing blackly above its reddish flame. She crept nearer, 
 leaning forward so as to get a view of the whole interior, 
 but found herself squarely in the doorway before she 
 realized how far she had gone. There the light dazzled 
 her for a moment, and she closed her eyes. In the same 
 breath she heard the hammer fall dully upon the earthen 
 floor, and a man's voice cry out : 
 
 "Nell!" 
 
 She looked, and saw Tom Taylor upon the ground, 
 straining away from her, but staring back with bursting 
 eyes. His teeth showed, set and terrible. In the white 
 blank of his face the circle of his eyelids had the color 
 of iron rust. 
 
 " Nell, Nell !" the shuddering voice repeated. Then
 
 149 
 
 he sank into a corner in a shivering heap, his features 
 hidden, his heaving shoulders drawn together in an atti- 
 tude of abject fear. 
 
 " My God ! Nell's ghost !" This time his voice rose 
 in a shrill animal cry she had once heard a frightened 
 horse neigh like that. She, too, was frightened too 
 frightened to think of the chance by which she had been 
 taken for a ghost where she had half expected to find one. 
 
 She crept into the cabin, and sank down upon the 
 ground near the door.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE horse at whose shoe Taylor had been hammering 
 swung around, and stood facing Emma with quivering 
 nostrils. Taylor himself had shrunk back, so that he was 
 almost invisible among the wavering shadows. His hat 
 had fallen off, his face was buried in his arms ; he had 
 flattened himself against the logs and the ground till his 
 body looked as if dislocated at the hips. There was 
 something tense, expectant, in the forward push of the 
 long, muscular neck away from the light. A sculptor 
 might have chosen such an attitude for the embodiment 
 of listening fear. 
 
 After the first startled movement of the horse the 
 place was very still. The walls deadened the wailing 
 of the autumnal winds along the cliffs and the hissing 
 and swirling of the creek among the rocks. Emma 
 Webster sat staring down at the dusty floor with vacant 
 eyes, hearing nothing. A patch of moonlight fell through 
 the opening in the roof, dimmed and reddened by the 
 torch-light. 
 
 Moments are hours in such a strain. The silence 
 grew big with the despair of the woman and the terror 
 of the man. All nature seemed to lie still and listen for 
 the word which should break the spell. The horse 
 stamped impatiently, sending up a cloud of dust, which 
 caught a golden glitter from the torch. The sound 
 startled Emma without attracting her attention to its
 
 151 
 
 cause. Her first consciousness was of Taylor's breath- 
 ing a sort of whistling rattle, mechanical and hard. 
 Thence her attention centred upon the man, and she 
 sat watching him apathetically for some time. 
 
 " Reuben !" she said at last. 
 
 It was not strange that he failed to answer, for she 
 hardly heard her own voice. 
 
 " Reuben !" 
 
 He heaved forward a little against the logs, and then 
 lay motionless as before. 
 
 " Reuben Goodell !" 
 
 This time he started as if a shock had passed through 
 him, but he still made no answer. 
 
 " Look at me." 
 
 His breathing grew quieter. She heard him mutter- 
 ing to himself, over and over, " My God ! my God !" 
 
 " Why should ye be afeerd o' me ?" 
 
 "Go 'way go 'way! I wa'n't in at your killin', no-- 
 how. Ye done it yerself. Go 'way !" 
 
 " What makes ye take me fer a ghost ? D' ye think " 
 
 "Oh, I've seen ye afore," he declared in a shrill voice. 
 
 " I ain't a ghost " 
 
 " Ye follered me wunst clean from Moab to Enan 
 Dorn's. I've slep' with the lamp burnin' ever sence, or 
 I'd a-seen ye every time I shet my eyes you V the 
 other." 
 
 " The other ?" 
 
 " The ole man with the blood runnin' down. Oh, I 
 know ye ! In the name o' God " 
 
 But she cut short his exorcism. 
 
 " I am Nell Madden. Ye've less to fear from me 'n 
 I from you."
 
 152 
 
 " Ye talk ahead like 'er, but she's dead she's dead !" 
 
 " Don't ye know my voice ?" 
 
 He raised his head, but did not look at her. 
 
 " She didn't say nothin' t'other time " 
 
 " She couldn't a-said nothin' she had no voice. But 
 this is reely me. Turn 'n' look at me. Why did ye 
 take me fer a ghost? Do they think I'm dead back 
 there ?" 
 
 " Elizur Cox found Nell Madden's body washed up on 
 the bar," he answered, in a hushed voice. 
 
 " No," said Emma Webster. 
 
 " They said ye went 'n' drownded yerself arter arter 
 that day." 
 
 " No," she repeated. " It was some 'un else. Look fer 
 yerself." 
 
 He turned mechanically and did as she commanded. 
 
 " Ye look like 'er," he said. So 'd the other 'un 't 
 follered me that night. Well, ye ain't so worn with 
 the water 's she was, nohow. 'N' the fishes the fishes 
 'd been at the other 'un, Nell. I I'm glad ye're livin', 
 I swear. I felt sorter 'sponsible fer ye arter knowin' 
 what I did." He was very pale, but his eyes, which 
 could measure and calculate even in terror, lost some- 
 thing of their fear as he gazed. " Ye be flesh 'n' blood, 
 I do b'lieve," he finally said. 
 
 " I reely be." 
 
 " 'N' ve didn't drownd yerself?" 
 
 " I thought o' it but I didn't dare." 
 
 Why ?" 
 
 " With that sin fresh on my soul ? Ye wouldn't 
 a-dared, yerself !" 
 
 He started strangely and stammered :
 
 153 
 
 " No no, I reckon nobody would." 
 
 " I'd come nearer to suicide no end o' times afore 
 then. But why should my ghost come back to you, even 
 if I had drownded myself?" 
 
 " I said I felt kinder 'sponsible fer ye, arter seein' ye 
 do the deed, didn't I ?" 
 
 He was sitting erect now and facing her. His com- 
 plexion had resumed its ordinary ruddy brown, his eyes 
 had narrowed to their normal width of orbit. The shad- 
 ows gave him an extraordinary breadth of cheek-bone 
 from a front view, and as he leaned forward his short 
 upper lip seemed overmastered by his nose. 
 
 " They they buried 'im, Nell. His brother came on 
 from the East V put up a headstun. They tried to find 
 the murderer, but they never did. Ye outwitted 'em com- 
 pletely. I had to answer no end o' questions, but o' 
 course / didn't know nothin' 'bout it. I merely found 
 the body. It's the bigges' kind o' relief to me 't ye 
 didn't drownd yerself ! How'd ye happen to come out 
 here ?" 
 
 " 'Twas a accident." 
 
 " Same here ! Tryin' to give the telegraphs a wide 
 berth ?" His thin, spreading lips expanded in a tremu- 
 lous leer. " Well, I know how that is myself !" 
 
 " Then ye run away, too ?" 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 " I'd jes' 's soon own up afore a pal like you, Nell. 
 Not d'reckly arter that day, though. I / hadn't no 
 reason to leave jes' then." 
 
 His emphasis was peculiar, and she regarded him 
 gravely. 
 
 "Ye mean /had. Well, I know that."
 
 154 
 
 " Ye don't deny ye done it ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 A strange gleam lighted up his sullen dark eyes. 
 
 " No one helped ye ?" 
 
 " Why d' ye talk like that ?" she cried out, sharp- 
 ly. " No one was there but you. If I'd had any 
 help" 
 
 Taylor leaped to his feet with an imprecation. 
 
 " Lookee 'ere, Nell Madden !" he cried, and a red flame 
 leaped up behind his eyes as if some deadly chemical 
 had been set on fire in there, " what's to hender me from 
 makin' yer ghost come true alone 'ere in the dead o' 
 night ? Take the consequences o' yer own doin's. Don't 
 try to rope me in, or by the Lord " 
 
 " Ye couldn't kill a more mis' able woomarn," was her 
 only answer. 
 
 "Well, d' ye take back what ye said 'bout bein' helped 
 by me ?" 
 
 "I didn't say nothin' 'bout bein' helped by you or any 
 one. I done it. I'm answerable to the Lord fer it. 'N' 
 He's punishin' me this day." 
 
 Taylor moved back with an abrupt laugh. 
 
 " It was only one o' my jokes, Nell. Ye know I was 
 allus a great joker the little joker they useter call 
 me back there on the Missoury. Kill ye? Lord love 
 ye, no ! I'm glad 'nough to find ye 'live, 'n' and so ye 
 may stay fer all I kerry in my gun." 
 
 She did not answer, but sat with her face turned away 
 from him, gazing out among the suspended, swaying 
 shades of the moonlight. The stars wavered in the 
 heavy breath of the night ; the shadows lay along the 
 leaf-strewn ground with mysterious distinctions and dif-
 
 155 
 
 ferences ; the creek murmured meaninglessly, like one 
 disturbed in a revery. 
 
 Taylor leaned back against the logs in a conversa- 
 tional attitude. 
 
 " I don't mind tellin' ye what made me skip the ken- 
 try, 's long 's ye're in the bizness, too. Well, arter a 
 while folks begun to 'cuse me o' the murder " 
 
 " You ?" She turned on him quickly. 
 
 " Yes, me. Ye've no idee how justice gits twisted in 
 the hands o' lawyers W detectives, Nell. Well, I got 
 wind o' it, V made up my mind I'd better not stan' a 
 trial ; so I left between two days." 
 
 " But what 'd they say o' me ?" 
 
 " Somehow ye'd sorter got into the background by 
 this time ; V everybody thort the drownded body was 
 yourn. Some folks went so fer 's to say I'd made 'way 
 with with him fust V you arterwards jes' see how 
 folks will talk! Well, what had I to stay fer? If ye 
 was drownded, they wa'n't no chance o' your comin' 
 back to clear me ; V as fer the ole man, he was gone, 
 fer sure. So, as I said, I jes' nachelly skipped out." 
 
 " 'N' then ?" 
 
 The heavy, sullen jaws closed in a hesitant pressure. 
 
 " 'N' then well, I'd allus fancied I'd like the climate 
 o' Collyraydo, as I struck out this way. I was amongst 
 the Greasers down South fer a while. Then I come up 
 'ere." 
 
 He looked at her with cunning examination, his low, 
 vertical forehead slanting towards her from among the 
 shadows. 
 
 " I like it purty well," he added. 
 
 She was gazing out into the moonlight once more.
 
 156 
 
 " Where was ye goin' to when ye happened to stumble 
 in on me ?" he asked. " 'D ye know I was 'ere ?" 
 
 " How could I ? If I had, I'd a-gone by on the wind. 
 I seen ye to Irish's yistiddy arternoon." 
 
 " I was there. Bad foot on that red beast. Dry air 
 more 'n anything else V corns. That tiptoein' Julius 
 don't know no more 'bout a hoss 'n a hog knows o' the 
 kingdom o' heaven. How'd ye happen to see me ?" 
 
 " I went out to the rocks by the spring 'n' looked over. 
 I knowed ye 'thout seein' yer face." 
 
 " Impressive back I must have !" The wide, unrelent- 
 ing mouth pointed itself in a smile. 
 
 Again they were silent, Taylor cracking his large 
 knuckles, or pausing in that to gnaw at his nails two 
 habits of his which she remembered. 
 
 " Well, where was ye strikin' out fer ?" he finally 
 asked. 
 
 "Donhaly City." 
 
 " 'Cause ye ketched sight o' me in Irish's corral ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Irishes know ye're goin'?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " 'Pears like ye've got into a habit o' runnin' away 
 lately, don't it ? 'Feerd o' me ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Wanted to put a small chance o' kentry 'tween us, 
 hey ?" 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 "Be ye hoofin' it?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Why didn't ye swipe a hoss ? Irishes 's got plenty. 
 Oh, I reckon 'twas conscience 't kep' ye from that. Queer
 
 157 
 
 't conscience should keep ye from hoss-stealin' 'n' let 
 ye do that other thing, I swear ! But such is life in 
 the Far West. Well, what next ?" 
 
 " I want to ast a favior o' ye, Reuben !" 
 
 " 0' course. What is it ?" 
 
 " I want ye to lend me yer hoss 's fur 's Donhaly City. 
 I'll pay ye fer it." 
 
 Taylor burst into a guffaw. 
 
 " She wants the loan o' my hoss to run away from 
 me with !" he cried, sobering up with a hoarse chuckle. 
 " Well, what 'd / do ?" 
 
 " 'Tain't fur from here to Beanston's. Ye could 
 walk." 
 
 " Well, the gall o' wimmin ! I could walk !" 
 
 " I'll leave the hoss fer ye there to the hotel." 
 
 " Heart alive ! she'll leave the hoss fer me there to 
 the hotel !" He faced her with his watchful, dishonest 
 eyes. " Well, how much 'ud ye be willin' to ante up, 
 now, fer the use o' that buckskin fer the outwittin' o' 
 justice ?" 
 
 " Five dollars." 
 
 " Five dollars nothin' ! Is that all ye reckon yer 
 skin 's wuth ? Five dollars ! If ye was to make it five 
 hunderd, now " 
 
 " I ain't got so much, Reuben. I ain't only got a little 
 't I had left over from what I had when I got here " 
 
 " Don't they pay wages up on Cloud Mountain ?" 
 
 " Yes ; but I hadn't none o' it about me when I left. 
 I'd pay ye more if I had it, fer I mus' go." 
 
 " Well, what's yer hurry, anyhow ? Ye ain't ast arter 
 any o' yer friends back there to Moab. Why don't ye 
 inquire fer the news ? I could give ye lots o' interestin'
 
 158 
 
 p'ints. Oh, yes say! ye 'member the preacher down in 
 Kadesh-Barnea Clements, his name was the tall, de- 
 pressed 'an with the droopin' ears ? Well, what d' ye 
 reckon he's gone 'n' done ? Married Phoebe Morris, 'n' 
 gone to farmin'. Now ye wouldn't a thort that o' 'im, 
 would ye the way he was rakin' souls inter the king- 
 dom ? But Phoebe, she had a tidy proputty. I had a eye 
 on it wunst myself, 'n' know jest about how it 'ud stack 
 up, 'n' I reckon she was a temptation her 'n' the farm. 
 'N' now he boards the new preacher, 'n' runs the farm 
 'n' church both sorter union o' Church 'n' State real 
 estate, see ? He ! he ! (Purty good, that 'an, wa'n't it ?) 
 Lord, I could a-had Phoebe myself if I'd a-wanted 'er. 
 She'd a-follered me to burnin' sulphur, that gal would ; 
 but I wa'n't to be ketched. 'N' ole Clements, he use- 
 ter walk all the way up from Kadesh-Barnea to Moab 
 every Saturday night jes' to spark 'er ; oh, they ain't no 
 fool like a pious fool, when he gits his eye on a gal's 
 proputty ! Well, don't it beat the airth to think o' set- 
 tin' here a-talkin' at midnight with a gal 't I made shore 
 was drownded 'n' doin' the etarnity act arter kickin' up 
 sech a shindy as was never heerd of in Western lowy 
 afore ! Here I'd been over to Baumgardener's ye know 
 them Dutch cubs ? 'n' was on my way home 's cheerful 
 's crickets 'n' 's peaceful 's pie, when Spanker up 'n' 
 loosens a shoe, 'n' I strikes out fer this cabin to fix it ; 
 'n' jes' 's I finishes, what does I do but look up 'n' there 
 stan's Nell Madden, white 's my best b'iled shirt. Say, 'd 
 ye reely leave up there 'cause ye was afeerd I'd blab ? 
 Ye orter a-knowed me better 'n that. It's a good joke, 
 though. Oh, Nell, if them Irishes knowcd ye like I do 
 if that high-steppin' Julius knowed ye like I do
 
 159 
 
 they 'd a-fired ye bod'ly out o' the house weeks ago, V 
 like 's not we'd never a -run acrosst each other. 'N' 
 what '11 they think when I tell 'em the hull bizness ? Ye 
 know I'm goin' over there to-morrer." 
 
 " Tell 'em?" she gasped. " Oh, Reuben, ye wouldn't !" 
 
 " Wouldn't ? What's to hender ? I'd jes' like to see 
 how Julius 'ud look !" 
 
 "Tell Julius? Reuben, I'd sooner die 'n have 'im 
 know !" 
 
 He gazed at her with slow scrutiny. 
 
 " What makes ye keer 'bout him more 'n the others ? 
 I can tell who I want to ; they ain't no strings tied to 
 me 't I know on." 
 
 Still scrutinizing her, a quick guess flashed into his 
 eyes. 
 
 " So !" he said, fetching a soft whistle. The heavy 
 lines from the corners of his nose to his mouth length- 
 ened and twitched. " So that's the ticket, is it, Julius, 
 hey ? Well, I'll be darned !" He was silent, while a 
 look of smirking audacity dawned on his face. Then he 
 slapped his knee till the horse started back. " Well, if 
 that ain't jes' great ! Oh, Nell, what 'ud they say back 
 there on the Missoury ?" 
 
 " Don't tell 'im, Reuben !" 
 
 He ignored the tragic appeal. 
 
 "Oh, Nell, Nell," he cried, with forced comicality, 
 " ye're a terror to heaven ; I swear ye be !" 
 
 She sank back against the logs, closing her eyes to 
 shut out the sight of his leering face. He watched her 
 with cruel, shining eyes. The devil appeared as inev- 
 itably in his smile as does any other artist in his work ! 
 This man had the coward's instinct to crush weak and
 
 160 
 
 helpless things, together with the aesthete's disposition 
 to linger over a striking situation and revel in its details. 
 The combination in an educated man would have pro- 
 duced an accomplished villain, murdering with a well- 
 bred air, and preserving the rules of etiquette even in 
 crime ; but in Tom Taylor the result was a heartless 
 bully, fearless in following out his brutal whims, but 
 without a touch of manliness, for all his courage. 
 
 " Queer, ain't it, how things do turn out ?" he remarked. 
 " Here I was, six months ago, dead in love with ye, V 
 willin' to give my immortal soul if ye'd run away with 
 me ; 'n' now here you be, in love with Irish, V wantin' 
 me to run away 'n' leave ye happy ever arter ! This 
 world's a holy show, now, ain't it, when ye come to git 
 a broad view ? Oh, I'm all over my foolishness long ago 
 I've had half a dozen Mexican senoritas on the string 
 sence I seen ye last in lowy. But what a world ! Swipes ! 
 it makes me laugh !" 
 
 He examined her still with measuring eyes. She did 
 not speak. 
 
 " Look 'ere, Nell," he suddenly cried. " S'posin' we 
 make a bargain, right here 'n' now. I don't bear no 
 grudge agin ye, not even if ye wouldn't skip the coun- 
 try with me, 'n' I ain't got no wish to do a bad turn by 
 yer Irishman. If ye wanter marry 'im, do it. I won't 
 say a word to bender." 
 
 " I shall never marry 'im," was the dull answer. 
 
 " I promise never to tell I'll swear to it by the holy 
 poker, or anything ye like. I'd like to see you 'n' Ju- 
 lius hit it off." 
 
 " I shall never marry 'im," she repeated. 
 
 " But if ye made shore he'd never know "
 
 161 
 
 " I couldn't make shore." 
 
 " Ye mean I wouldn't keep my word ?" 
 
 " I know yc wouldn't, if ye felt like breakin' it !" 
 
 "Well, chaw me up! I'd like to see the man 't 'ud 
 tell me that !" 
 
 " That ain't the main thing, though. Even if Julius 
 never knowed " 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "/'d know. It 'ud be a wicked thing to deceive 
 'im." 
 
 Taylor whistled again. 
 
 " Talk o' sech trifles 's that, arter what ye done las' 
 June ! D' ye still read yer Bible, Nell 1 I shouldn't 
 wonder I shouldn't wonder if ye had it there in that 
 bundle this very minute !" 
 
 He had seated himself once more, and had braced his 
 elbow on his knee, leaning his cheek on his hand, with 
 the forefinger extending behind his coarse, spreading 
 ear. His heavy, straight nose, curving largely at the 
 end, seemed strangely prominent, thrust out into the 
 light. A horizontal line in his chin the remains of a 
 boyish dimple was momentarily revealed, and then his 
 high cheek-bones and large ears seemed to multiply as 
 the torch fell to flickering again. 
 
 " If I 's you, Nell, I wouldn't run off ag'in. Stay V 
 face the music. I tell ye, I'll be gen'rous I won't say 
 a word. 'Tain't no use in shinnin' out like this ; ye'll 
 git in the habit o' it, 'n' never settle down. Stay with it, 
 Nell stay with it ! I'd like to have a ole friend 'round 
 to talk over ole times with I reely would. Dassen't ye 
 bargain with me ? I won't tell on ye if ye won't tell on 
 me. Ye see, bein' under a strange name 'n' in a furrin
 
 land, 's ye may say well, folks might lose confidence 
 in me if ye was to blab. Come, is it a go ?" 
 
 " I won't blab, but I'm goin'. The Lord 's p'inted 
 the way, V it's fer me to follcr it." 
 
 " Oh, when ye git to mixin' the Lord up in the bizness, 
 that complicates it. What's the use o' draggin' Him in ? 
 It's all atween you 'n' me let's op'rate on that basis." 
 
 She arose wearily. 
 
 " I know what ye want me to stay fer. It's to have 
 suthin' 't ye kin threaten 'n' tease 'n' torment the life 
 out of. No ! 'N' if ye won't lend me yer boss " 
 
 "Well, I won't not for no five dollars," declared 
 Taylor, promptly. 
 
 " Then I mus' walk it." 
 
 " S'posin' I was to ride up to Cloud Mountain 'n' set 
 Julius arter ye ?" 
 
 " I could hide 'n' let 'im pass." 
 
 " He'd hunt till he found ye. He's got a jaw on 'im 
 like a mule. 'N' if he loved a gal " 
 
 " Ye kin do what ye like. He'll never find me alive." 
 
 Taylor peered out at her from between his stiff, sparse 
 eyelashes. He examined her calculatingly, passing his 
 hand across his forehead. His hair looked fine and soft, 
 but was unaccountably stiff, and after the pressure of his 
 hand was removed it resumed precisely its former droop- 
 ing rigidity. 
 
 She turned towards the door, picking up her bundle 
 automatically. Before her were the moon-silvered wil- 
 lows, the shadow-splashed bottom, the cliffs, and, above 
 all, the mountains, sleeping the long slumber of the 
 ages. 
 
 " Ye won't, then. Well, good-bye," he said.
 
 163 
 
 But at the threshold she paused in startled dread. 
 " Some 'tin's comin' !" she cried. 
 
 And, indeed, all at once the dull, regular beat of a 
 horse's hoofs was audible beyond the bridge. On it came 
 with a harsh, xylophonic rhythm. Then a sudden sharp 
 concussion split the night silence as the horse, ridden 
 furiously, struck the vibrating planks. 
 
 "Who is it?" Tom Taylor's eyes asked. 
 
 Emma peered out hurriedly into the moonlit open, but 
 instantly drew back. 
 
 " Run hide !" she cried, with a frantic gesture. " It's 
 Julius !" 
 
 Taylor opened his sullen black eyes. He did not run. 
 
 " Julius ? Well, I'll be !" And his lips stiffened in 
 a slow smile.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 EMMA bent forward, close to the door-frame, listening. 
 The strain of her attention seemed to tame and subju- 
 gate the noise of the pines and the water, and make the 
 night passive. For the moment she was incapable of 
 hearing anything except the sound she dreaded. Had 
 Taylor fired off his gun close to her ear, she would not 
 have noticed it. Then the tension relaxed, and her shoul- 
 ders drooped a little in sympathy with the diminished 
 strain of her thoughts. 
 
 " Kin ye hear 'im ?" Taylor's whisper cut into the 
 silence like a fine thread drawn hard across shrinking 
 flesh. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Ain't he nowheres in sight ?" 
 
 " Can't ye git away ?" she whispered back. " He 
 mustn't find ye here !" 
 
 " What d' ye reckon he'd do ?" The question was not 
 asked from fear Emma Webster knew that. 
 
 He was standing negligently between two upright 
 slabs which had been nailed against the logs, and in this 
 position he looked like some monstrous metope between 
 ruin-traces of triglyph and cornice. The shadows rushed 
 silently about him, tumbling together in opaque heaps, 
 and flattening out, crossing and recrossing, expanding 
 and shrinking, swaying forward and back. The dust 
 stirred up by the horse's trampling still made a golden
 
 165 
 
 mist in the air. Through the broken roof the sleepless 
 stars looked down, and the pine branches swayed darkly. 
 
 "Kin ye hear 'im 'long the bottom yit?" 
 
 " No. He's still somers behind the trees." 
 
 " It '11 look ruther bad fer ye, won't it, to be ketched 
 'ere alone with a man at this time o' night " 
 
 " Ain't they a winder ?" she whispered. " A back 
 door " 
 
 " Back doors 'n' winders ain't so very much a drug 
 in the market at this minute, be they, now ?" 
 
 " Couldn't ye crawl through the ruff ?" 
 
 " I reely can't jump so high ; my trainin' was all on 
 the horizontal." 
 
 " Ye could climb up on the boss's back." 
 
 "But I couldn't pull 'im up arter me, 'n' how 'd ye 
 'count fer 'im if he was left behind ?" 
 
 " God help me !" she cried in despair. 
 
 " Better call on the devil," advised Taylor. " He's al- 
 lus on hand 'n' willin'. I might put out the torch ' 
 
 " Do 'n' hurry !" she breathed. 
 
 " But I reckon I won't." 
 
 She made a dash at the burning brand herself, but he 
 placed his burly figure in her way. 
 
 " What d' ye want to do that fer ? He's seen the 
 light he couldn't help it. It 'ud be wuss fer ye if he 
 found us 'ere in the dark !" 
 
 She could not tell whether the precaution originated 
 in some source of latent manhood, or whether he only 
 meant to tantalize her. 
 
 " How ye mus' love 'im to be so 'feerd o' 'im ! Oh, 
 stan' up to it, Nell ! That's the way to do when ye git 
 into a fix stan' up to it V face it. Tairi't never 's bad
 
 166 
 
 's wot ye cal'late it's going to be. Face the enemy fair 
 'n' square, 'n' don't give 'em a chance to git a fall out o' 
 ye. He's comin' listen !" 
 
 She could hear nothing but the creek chafing and 
 fretting through the narrow defile below the cabin, and 
 the wind drawing in tremulous breaths among the trees. 
 The stars glittered like particles of mica in a gray wall ; 
 a thin cloud floated up and dulled the moonlight. 
 
 " He must a-passed on," she said, her mind fluctuat- 
 ing between hope and fear. 
 
 No listen !" 
 
 Then she distinguished the thud of approaching hoofs 
 along the moist bottom. 
 
 " That's him," said Taylor. " He'll be 'ere in a min- 
 ute. Be ye prayin', or what makes yer lips go that way? 
 He'll make shore ye met me 'ere by app'intment Lord, 
 what a go ! Don't take it so hard, Nell ye look 's blue 
 's a bag o' indigo. Tell 'im yer reel opinion o' me yer 
 face allus helped ye out on the truth. He'll b'lieve ye 
 'n' ye kin kiss 'n' make up. Yes, he'll be 'ere in a min- 
 ute." 
 
 That minute seemed an age. She kept her eyes riv- 
 eted on the open outside the door. A fallen log lay 
 black under the willows like a boat under a bank. The 
 moon's silver lances dropped softly among the pines ; 
 the cliffs beyond the road loomed like some gigantic 
 fortress with crenellated towers. There was a movement 
 of thin clouds high up, like the coming and going of vis- 
 ionary forms, and above everything rose the snowy peaks 
 in ghostly outline against the moonlit sky. 
 
 " What d' ye reckon he'll do, fust off ?" Taylor asked. 
 " He kerries a gun, don't he ?"
 
 167 
 
 The slow trampling hoofs came nearer straight tow- 
 ards the cabin door. Her eyes felt the black-and-white 
 hardness of the night as if it had been stamped upon her 
 retina with a steel die the trees with their grotesque 
 duplicates of shadow, the cliffs silvered along their edges 
 by the moon. The night made a ghostly sound of its 
 own stillness low moan ings, soft whisperings dying out 
 in remote sibilance ; but above it all she heard the rasp- 
 ing of willow branches against a horse's sides, the yield- 
 ing of loamy soil beneath a horse's hoof. And her mind 
 made a horrible picture of what was to be a quarrel, a 
 crime, a tangle of consequences which neither time nor 
 death could straighten out. 
 
 The horse stopped ; the rider dismounted. She heard 
 the willows rustle as he tied his horse among them now 
 she knew he had paused to make sure of his knot. A 
 dull blankness of despair settled down upon her, but she 
 still saw and heard. His shadow stretched out long and 
 black on the ground before he appeared in the doorway. 
 At that moment everything was so still ! But when he 
 was really there, the solid earth became vibrant, the wa- 
 ters burst into a riot of song, and the pines cried out 
 shrilly, as if with joy at the deed they expected to wit- 
 ness. 
 
 She said not a word, but a deaf person would have 
 believed she was screaming, She reached out blindly to 
 push him back. Then the whirling noises of the night 
 became material to her they seized her with the force 
 and fury of a mountain torrent, lifted her, bore her lightly 
 in a furious rush out into the darkness. She sank down 
 with shuddering limbs, her thoughts passing out into the 
 vacancy into which all strong emotion finally merges.
 
 168 
 
 " Why, Emmy !" cried Julius, hastening towards her 
 and lifting her up. 
 
 He did not look about him for a little, but gazed down 
 at her anxiously. " See, I've come fer ye, I'm goin' to 
 take ye back. Ye kin ride behind me on Black Susan 
 it ain't fur. What made ye leave us so ? What had we 
 done to make ye want to go ? But I knowed I'd find ye 
 I knowed ye hadn't gone fur. Shall I bring ye some 
 water? 'Tain't but a step. Kin ye lean back agin the 
 logs while I go ?" 
 
 She wrenched herself back into a sort of semi-con- 
 sciousness and looked up at him, still sickened with ex- 
 cess of fear. 
 
 " Now ye're better," said Julius. "Why, what a scare 
 I've had, fust findin' ye gone, then faintin' away here all 
 by yerself in McChesney's cabin ! Ye mus' tell me all 
 'bout it on the way back. Ye're shore ye're better ?" 
 
 She straightened herself against the logs with difficulty. 
 
 " Yes, better, better !" she managed to say. " Shall 
 we go now ?" 
 
 His eyes wandered beyond her among the shadows. 
 
 " Why, whose hoss kin that be ? 'D ye have a hoss ? 
 'Tain't one o' ourn that's why I made shore I'd ketch 
 up with ye so soon. 'N' they's a man over there Tom 
 Taylor !" 
 
 The owner of the name came forward. 
 
 " Good - evenin'," he said, with elaborate politeness. 
 " Good -evenin', Mr. Irish or good-mornin' ; which is 
 it? Gittin' chilly, ain't it? Shouldn't wonder if it 'ud 
 snow by to-morrow, mebbe sooner." 
 
 Julius turned to Emma. 
 
 " He here with ye ?" he asked.
 
 169 
 
 She was silent, unable to answer, but quivering like 
 some helpless creature under the lash. 
 
 " Oh, don't ast 'er," advised Taylor. " She's too fur 
 gone to sense anything." He picked up his sombrero, 
 settled it carefully, then pushed it back, displaying the full 
 breadth of his low, sullen forehead with its overhanging 
 tuft of hair. " Well, say ! ain't this great, now ? I'm 
 allus in it stric'ly in it, as the boys say. It's been jes' 
 so ever sence I 's knee-high to a pollywog, too if a lot 
 o' terriers went out on a toot 'n' got drunk to the reelin' 
 p'int, 'n' punched each other's faces, 'n' mebbe got to 
 shootin', I was allus one o' the lot, V the one 't all the 
 blame fell on. 'N' it's jes' so with wimmin. I'm allus 
 mixed up with 'em somehow 'n' allus wrong. Dad 
 useter say I had lots o' snap in doin' the devil's work, 
 but he never 'cused me o' bein' industrious any other 
 way. Nothin' ever happens 'thin fifty mile o' where I 
 hang out 't I ain't in it, slick 's a button. I swear, I do 
 have luck !" 
 
 Julius had faced him attentively while he was speak- 
 ing, but now he turned again to Emma. 
 
 " What does it mean ?" he asked. 
 
 But again Tom Taylor spoke up. 
 
 " A lady 'n' gentleman kin have a leetle private con- 
 versation, can't they ? I dunno 's the time o' night has 
 to be specified if they're satisfied, outsiders orter be." 
 
 " Tell me," said Julius, still without noticing Taylor's 
 interruption ; " did he did he " 
 
 " No, I didn't run away with 'er," declared Taylor. 
 " Let me git a holt o' the man 't says I did, 'n' I'll lay 
 the color on 'im ! She never run away with nobody, 
 though she may a-had 'er reasons fer runnin' away from
 
 170 
 
 somebody, now V then. Lord, it's 's nat'ral fer some 
 folks to run away 's 'tis fer a Greaser to run the heels o' 
 his boots innard. Queer cattle, them Greasers I didn't 
 git 'long with 'em 's well 's wot I do with the four-foot- 
 ed kind. 'N' the wild smells they do kerry aroun' with 
 'em ! I like this 'ere part o' Collyraydo better. I like 
 the alectricity in the air. It's wonderful bracin'." 
 
 Julius looked him over from head to foot very slowly. 
 
 " Ye talk too much," he said at last. " Mebbe ye'd 
 better let Emmy speak. She's got a tongue." 
 
 " Emmy ?" repeated Taylor, with a short laugh. 
 " Emmy ! She calls 'erself Emmy, does she ? What a 
 purty idee ! I swear, the gal 's got a neat taste in names 
 though she never had a chance to show it till she 
 come out 'ere. They ain't nothin' like a change o' cli- 
 mate fer bringin' out them little peculiarities, I've no- 
 ticed that. Oh, it's a great thing, this Collvraydo cli- 
 mate 'pears like it had a sort o' holy, christcnin' in- 
 floonce gives folks a chance to be borned ag'in !" 
 
 " Emmy," demanded Julius, with a deliberation which 
 showed that he was controlling himself with difficulty, 
 " 'd this man come 'ere with ye ?" 
 
 " No. I seen the light V come in that was all." 
 
 " 'N' that's the fust yc knowed o' his bein' anywheres 
 aroun' ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " It's what I wanted to know," said Julius, gravely, 
 turning to Taylor once more. 
 
 " Well," said the latter, easily, " now 't ye know it, 
 what be ye goin' to do 'bout it ? Goin' to take us out 'n' 
 Irck us like two bad little kids ? Oh, say, mister, don't 
 do that ! It allus hurts me to be licked by a man o'
 
 171 
 
 your size. Please, good, kind mister, whatever ye do, 
 don't lick us ! We won't never do so no more !" 
 
 " Keep still, will ye ?" said Julius, his voice growing 
 more and more strained. " I don't like yer way o' talk- 
 in' !" 
 
 Taylor whistled. 
 
 " Well, say ! He don't like my way o' talkin' ! Why 
 didn't I take a sneak into my cold grave afore it come 
 to this? He don't like my way o' talkin' ! Oh, I wish, 
 I wish 't I was dead, 'n' the green grass growin' over 
 me ! 'D ye reckon she was stuck on me, 't ye waltzed 
 into me like that ? Well, she isn't ; she hates me like 
 she hates no other work o' the devil. Yes, I own up to 
 bein' a work o' the devil I'm a self-made man. But I 
 know wuss 'uns look at her, there. I've knowed 'er 
 sev'ral year " 
 
 Julius's eyes sent forth a gleam as sharp and cold as 
 the reflex of Syrian steel. 
 
 " Let 'er alone !" he commanded. 
 
 Emma Webster, who remembered and understood the 
 resources of Taylor's eyes, saw the anger gathering in 
 them no less fiercely than in the eyes of her lover. The 
 studied gayety with which he next spoke was more dead- 
 ly than the most formidable insults could have been. 
 
 " Let 'er alone ? Yer arm's around 'er mebbe ye'd 
 better foller yer own advice. 'N' she look at 'er ! she 
 stan's up to it, 'n' takes it 's nat'ral 's a hoss takes a feed 
 o' corn !" 
 
 " Don't mind 'im," said Emma, finding her voice and 
 clinging to Julius as he started forward. " What does 
 it matter ? Come, let's go back !" But Julius was deaf 
 and blind.
 
 Taylor took up the word again. 
 
 "I know this 'ere Emmy o' yourn darn well I 
 knowed 'er back there in lowy, 'n' can swear to 'er every 
 time. Ye orter hear wot 'er neighbors say o' 'er ; ye 
 orter hear wot the shurriff says 'n' the p'lice up to 
 Council Bluffs. But mebbe she'll tell ye how she give 
 'em all the slip " 
 
 She had never imagined anything like the white anger 
 which stormed into Julius's face. 
 
 " Try to stan' up," he said to her in a low, hard voice. 
 
 But she flung her arms about him, and would not let 
 him cast her off. 
 
 As in a dream she saw Taylor shift his pistol from his 
 hip to his side, and stand idly fingering the hilt. 
 
 " Put it up put it up !" She thought she was speak- 
 ing passionately, but her voice sounded dead and toneless. 
 
 " Sorry to disobleege a lady if so ye may be called," 
 was Taylor's answer. She had seen him once before 
 with that oval of livid pallor about the mouth. " Say, if 
 ye're goin' to faint, move off 'n' do it quiet 'n' genteel 
 in a corner, won't ye 1 We ain't got no time to monkey 
 with ye. 'N' I warn ye, the ground 's dusty 'n' hard !" 
 
 She turned away from him with horror. 
 
 " Come with me, Julius !" she cried. " I'll go back 
 I'll go back !" 
 
 But he hardly looked at her. 
 
 " Him 'n' me 's got to come to a settlemint fust," was 
 Julius's answer. 
 
 " I ain't told half the truth 'bout 'er " began Taylor 
 once more. 
 
 " Shet ycr lyin' mouth, will ye ?" cried Julius, " or 
 shall I slap it shet ?"
 
 173 
 
 Taylor stroked his chin with a tremulous, deliberate 
 hand. The livid circle about his mouth widened and paled. 
 
 " Well, that settles it," he remarked. 
 
 There was a little silence while the three tense figures 
 seemed preparing for some dreadful act. The anger of 
 the men had risen to the pitch of murder. 
 
 " Ye've got a gun ?" Taylor asked in an unmoved voice. 
 
 Julius brought out his great revolver and cocked it, 
 muzzle down. 
 
 " Is the cabin too small ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " If ye'd ruther go outside " 
 
 "No." 
 
 Taylor laughed at the iterated negatives. Emma 
 watched their white, passionate faces with the tragic en- 
 durance of helplessness. Would not God speak ? But 
 no sound came but the quiet, untrembling voices raised 
 above the noise of the wind and water. 
 
 " They ain't nothin' surer 'n a little room fer sech 
 work," declared Taylor. " Shall we stan' back agin the 
 walls ?" 
 
 " We ain't none too clost jest as we be now," was the 
 answer. 
 
 " Go over 'n' stan' by the door, or go outside," Julius 
 commanded the girl, who was still clinging to him. 
 "'Tain't no place fer ye, nohow. Why '11 ye make 
 me kerry ye away ?" 
 
 He smiled down at her, but she shuddered before 
 that smile and looked away. 
 
 "I shall stay where I be," she declared, clinging 
 closer. " The bullet '11 hit me fust I'll be dead afore it 
 reaches ye. 'N' then what '11 they be to fight fer ?"
 
 174 
 
 " I b'lieve she means it," laughed Taylor. " I allus 
 knowcd they was wheels in 'er head. We might tie 'er 
 my lariat 's on the saddle " 
 
 " No," said Julius. " I kin hold 'er agin my left side 
 'n' shoot with my right hand. Be ye ready ?" 
 
 " That ain't fair," was Taylor's answer. " That gives 
 me the advantage. I don't want that." 
 
 " If /'m satisfied, what's the rest to you T" 1 demanded 
 Julius. " Take yer place. I'll count." 
 
 They stood opposite each other, their pistols raised, 
 their eyes gleaming. Emma felt herself crushed against 
 Julius's side as if in an iron vise. 
 
 And now the supreme moment was come the moment 
 for the dissolution of all things. 
 
 " One two three " 
 
 Before the last word was uttered she wrenched herself 
 forward with a mighty effort. Shots and flashes came 
 simultaneously. Before the vibration of the old walls 
 had ceased Emma Webster uttered a cry and fell for- 
 ward. Neither of the two men had been touched. 
 
 " My God ! ye've killed 'er !" cried Julius. 
 
 " I tole ye we orter tie 'er," was the cool answer. 
 
 But she opened her eyes and drew away from her 
 lover. " My arm," she said, in a dazed way ; " he must 
 a -hit my arm!" And she burst into tremulous sobs 
 and tears. 
 
 It was only a scratch, as Julius found upon examina- 
 tion, and he bound it up with his handkerchief. But 
 he was frightened now all the anger had gone out of 
 him. 
 
 " That was a clost call fer you, young woomarn," said 
 Taylor, with perfect composure. " Ye moved 'im jest
 
 175 
 
 enough so 't he missed me 'n' I missed ye both. Well, 
 better luck 'nother time. Shall we tie 'er 'n' at it ag'in ?" 
 
 " No," was the immediate answer. " Our quarrel kin 
 wait." 
 
 Emma had been watching him with wide eyes. Now 
 she breathed freely. It was as if she had gained an ad- 
 vantage over death ! 
 
 Taylor laughed. 
 
 " Well, I don't see as I orter kick at that. But say ! 
 a woomarn allus puts a black eye on a thing like this, 
 don't she ? We kin see each other later, though " 
 
 " Is he comin' up to Cloud Mountain to live, arter 
 this ?" Emma asked. 
 
 " Do ye want 'im ?" said Julius. 
 
 " Fer God's sake, no !" 
 
 " Then he won't come." 
 
 " Oh, that's all right," said Taylor, his eyes sultry 
 with suppressed lightnings. " But when we even up 
 our little accounts " 
 
 "Yes?" inquired Julius. ",When we even up our little 
 accounts ?" 
 
 " This '11 be reckoned in along o' the rest 'n' big !" 
 
 " Well," said Julius.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 A SEVERE mental strain deadens the very sensibilities 
 which make it possible ; the shock passes into an unper- 
 ceiving numbness in which the easy, speaking tone of every 
 day becomes unrecognizable even to the speaker as the 
 voice which in a supreme moment rose to the pitch of 
 tragic fury. 
 
 Of that lonely flight down the mountain road, the 
 meeting with Taylor, the coming of Julius, the quarrel, 
 Emma Webster retained only a blank memory of suffer- 
 ing; the succession of horrors had assumed by the next 
 morning the remoteness of a dim historic perspective. 
 They had happened, she knew, and they had left their 
 mark on her, mentally as well as physically ; but she had 
 grown old since then, and could show her scars to those 
 about her without danger of an intrusive living sympathy 
 for what had happened so long ago. When she tried, she 
 could not represent what had happened ; the effort of 
 memory was stronger than the revived image and its ac- 
 companying emotions. The scene came before her like 
 some terrible picture whose meaning she had only guessed 
 at, some drama whose motive had shaken and mystified 
 her. In connecting herself with that night she was 
 obliged to employ some such process of self-deception as 
 a fanciful man brings to bear in order to make him- 
 self believe what he is talking about. Her capacity for 
 suffering had been filled in a moment, and it seemed
 
 177 
 
 as if her identity had been wellnigh drowned in the 
 overflow. 
 
 She had changed. She felt it with a dull apathy which 
 afforded her no material for self-pity. Something in her 
 had withered, had died down, and left unparadised the 
 garden of her soul. And she knew what it was the 
 hitherto unconscious belief that somehow, in spite of her- 
 self, in spite of Fate, her happiness would be cared for. 
 That belief had been planted deep in the soil of her faith, 
 resistless as self, stronger than justice, and to lose it had 
 been like tearing away the best part of her life. 
 
 She did her work about the house, but the woman's 
 love-dream which had dreamed itself out in spite of cold 
 and darkness, had been dispelled forever; she could not 
 take up her life with the old energy which her secret hope 
 of happiness had made necessary. Her future lay before 
 her without plan a lifeless continuation of that past for 
 which she was responsible, and from which it was impossi- 
 ble to get free. It was a failure a ruin from beginning to 
 end. Had Julius come to her with the battered old Cot- 
 tage Encyclopaedia in his hand, and, pointing to the blurred 
 map of the Via Appia, said: ''This is the ancient circus; 
 this is" and so on through the whole dreary catalogue 
 of localities, she would have felt as much personal inter- 
 est as if a true prophet had presented her with a map of 
 her future. She knew what it would be she had lived 
 through it in the experiences of her past, as surely as if 
 she were looking back upon it from her death-bed. She 
 knew what she would do, what she would say, how she 
 would act for all time to come. Never again would she 
 know the eager hopes and fears of a living woman. She 
 would exist without identity, without sex-^a human ab-
 
 178 
 
 straction made concrete only by a few points of contact 
 with those who really lived. She was no longer an indi- 
 vidual ; she was a generalized woman. 
 
 She grew paler and thinner. Her eyes burned with a 
 wasting flame ; she looked as if she had passed through 
 years of silent struggle. The old woman watched her 
 anxiously, not daring to speak. 
 
 One day she found courage to speak to Julius. 
 
 " Suthin' 's wrong atween ye 'n' Emmy," she declared. 
 
 " Ye see too much, mother," he answered, coldly. 
 
 " It don't take much to tell the way the wind blows by 
 the way the trees lean," was her grim parable. And Julius 
 affected not to understand. 
 
 The snow had come. Its approach was announced by 
 puffs of storm-cloud in unexpected places, like smoke 
 from the rifles of bold skirmishers. Little eddies of mist 
 swirled along the ridges, poised above precipices, then dis- 
 appeared as if underground. Suddenly the peaks which 
 had been softly outlined in the autumn haze were lost in 
 bulging volumes of gray cloud, which rolled in as if an 
 army of giants were cannonading the outer mountain wall. 
 The clouds thickened, expanded, filled the sky with busy 
 shadows; they descended along the pink and bronze 
 ridges, and thrust eager, fumbling hands into every crack 
 and crevice of the foot-hills. An impulse of storm swept 
 through the very rocks ; the aerial billows rose in combing 
 surges till they seized the sun and held him under, strug- 
 gling ; they dashed cataract-like into the gulches till the 
 world was flooded, and valley and mountain lay on a level 
 in the tumult. An icy wind streamed down from the 
 invisible summits a wind which got under the skin of 
 one's face and tried to tear it loose. The cabin seemed
 
 179 
 
 to rise and fall on the drifting cloud-rack ; hill and sky, 
 disintegrated, mixed and dragged each other along the 
 
 When the storm passed, the mountains had lost their 
 plumbago shading, the forests were sunk in the drifts, the 
 gulches lay as if packed in cotton-wool. Down in the 
 canons the shadows softened the glaring whiteness to a 
 pale, hard gray, which somehow seemed the guardian of 
 the silence. In isolated groups the cattle weltered through 
 the white drifts, pawing the snow aside for the frozen 
 bunch-grass, or nibbling at the leafless underbrush. The 
 creek lay invulnerable beneath its breastplate of ice ; the 
 mounds loomed blindingly irregular in profile against the 
 rocks. On the upper levels there were but two colors 
 visible : the blue of the sky and the white of the snow. 
 No sound, no movement disturbed the awful white apathy 
 of the world. 
 
 The cattle were tractable, and, for the most part, re- 
 mained in the gulches. On the very day before the storm 
 Julius had found an opportune tramp several miles away 
 on the railroad, taking advantage of a tie-pass for Denver, 
 and had " corralled " him for the winter. They managed 
 to get a man's work out of him, but thereby were obliged 
 to do the work of several men themselves. Mrs. Irish 
 called him "The Red-headed Reproach," because he pro- 
 tested with every muscle of his blond, freckled counte- 
 nance against the work assigned him, and because he al- 
 ways looked as if putting up with abuse meekly. 
 
 Abiathar came over from Barb Wire Ranch on snow- 
 shoes, and brought the news that Taylor was to spend the 
 winter at Baumgardener's. Ernma Webster heard it with 
 a thankful heart. "They can't fight it out afore spring
 
 180 
 
 now," she thought; "V mebbe I'll be dead afore then. 
 If I should be, that, 'ud end it. They wouldn't be nothin' 
 to fight over if I was out o' the way." 
 
 Julius talked but little with her, though they were 
 much together in the house. Her eyes asked nothing 
 more than the forbearance of his silence, and, obsequious 
 to her moods, but strongly at variance with events, he 
 obeyed her. He was glad to be silent, too. The memory 
 of that night in McChesney's cabin stood between them 
 a memory which threatened and evaded, but never ex- 
 plained. Until she spoke, he could say nothing. He 
 noted with a great pity her changed manner, her hopeless 
 eyes, which seemed to find no encouragement to trust in 
 human sympathy. But his very love had its exactions, 
 and silence was one of these. Was he learning to distrust 
 her? Love is a purveyor of honey and gall, but a man 
 never tastes its real bitterness till he has learned to suspect. 
 
 When alone on the range, floundering through the 
 gulches on his pony, or speeding along the ridges on his 
 snow-shoes, the mystery of Emma Webster's life made a 
 horrible rhythm in his thoughts, unheeded, perhaps, in 
 the exertion of the moment, yet dominating everything, 
 like the prolonged tolling of a great knell. He had lit- 
 tle imagination ; his homely training had given him a 
 homely mind, which fell prostrate before possible compli- 
 cations; he grasped but the one fact that Taylor knew 
 the story of her life, and that she feared him. He ac- 
 cused her of nothing ; but the knowledge that Taylor 
 possessed some power over her had touched his life jar- 
 ringly, moved it from its old spiritual harmony into the 
 isolation of new sensations. If he did not doubt, at least 
 he no longer trusted.
 
 181 
 
 He was appalled at the possible endurance of their es- 
 trangement, which was growing day by day. At night 
 he had dreams of her which he brooded over by day, and 
 made into portents and allegories. Once, in a dream, he 
 saw her sitting by the open window, sewing on her own 
 shroud, while she turned to him smilingly and asked if 
 the ruffle in the neck were too wide. Again, it was sum- 
 mer, and he was somewhere in the mountains, sitting be- 
 side a river whose waters slid away with a joyous exul- 
 tation through wild -rose thickets and odorous twining 
 plants. He sat quite passive and contented, as uncon- 
 scious of any antecedent state of mind as if he had been 
 just created. The music of the water dropped in upon 
 the calm of pleasant thoughts. The high aerial peaks 
 seemed like sentient things ; the clouds lay quite still 
 with their bright sides towards the sun. Suddenly he 
 was thrilled by the inward sense of a Presence near and 
 beautiful, and, looking up, he beheld Emma Webster, all 
 robed in glittering white. " She's dead," he thought, 
 tranquilly; "and this is heaven." She looked like some 
 rare white flower that had absorbed the sun and dew of 
 the morning. And as he looked he involuntarily fell to 
 wondering whether her gown was silk or cotton. But 
 there played a ring of white fire all around her hair, and 
 when she clasped her hands and lifted her eyes as if she 
 saw God coming, he knelt and worshipped her, though 
 certain now that her gown was cotton. 
 
 He awoke, and lay for some time thinking about it. 
 
 "The gown stan's fer my doubts o' 'er," he concluded. 
 " Must I doubt 'er even in heaven ?" 
 
 Emma understood the struggle which was taking place 
 in his thoughts, and gradually there grew into her indif-
 
 ference a single desire the suicidal wish to tell him the 
 story of her life and bear his judgment. " He hates me 
 now," she said to herself, finding a fierce joy in exag- 
 gerating their estrangement. " How '11 he feel when I 
 tell 'im everything?" There was a horrid fascination in 
 the thought of provoking this man's scorn, whose love 
 she had outraged. She waited, hoping miserably that 
 something would happen to precipitate her resolve. But 
 nothing happened only the ceaseless round of daily 
 tasks, which she had learned to perform with the un- 
 thinking exactness of a machine. " I mus' tell 'ira," she 
 thought, with hysterical decision. " Nothin' can be wuss 
 'n this." But her heart failed her at the time resolved 
 upon, and her secret, though not its consequences, was 
 still her own. 
 
 But one morning, when they were alone for a moment, 
 she came close to him, and looked him in the face with 
 a strange, spontaneous courage. She began, with eager 
 abruptness : 
 
 "Julius, I want ye to know all 'bout myself. Ye tole 
 me long 'go it was yer place 'n' now I know it's true. 
 Ye'll come to my room arter the supper things is put 
 away ? I kin tell ye then." 
 
 His face softened visibly. 
 
 " Ye're shore ye want to do it?" 
 
 " Yes. Why, I can bear anything now ! 'N' when ye 
 know the hull story " 
 
 " I shall love ye better 'n ever," he declared, drawing 
 her to him and then letting her go. 
 
 He was not alone with her again all day. She moved 
 here and there with that household diligence which had
 
 183 
 
 gained favor in Mrs. Irish's eyes, a pathetic, wistful creat- 
 ure, unconsciously crowned and sainted in her own un- 
 selfishness. Julius took up the Cottage Encyclopaedia and 
 tried to read. .But he found little to stimulate his in- 
 terest in the statement that Emporise in Africa was one of 
 the chief granaries of Rome, and that the climate of 
 Egypt is generally delightful, its main drawback being the 
 Khamseen wind. His eyes wandered out along the vast 
 white silence. A few faint clouds were frozen into the 
 gray air, like ships clogged in polar ice, and stirring faint- 
 ly as if trying to signal each other. His glance returned 
 to Emma. How patient, how gentle, how good she 
 seemed, bending above her work, intent and silent! A 
 sort of lofty transmutation passed through him ; his 
 doubts vanished, he believed in her utterly. " It can't be 
 nothin' bad. Somehow she's deceived in her own self. 
 What's the use fer 'er to confess? I kin trust 'er even 
 ag'in 'erself. She couldn't a-done nothin' bad. 'N' if she 
 had," his heart added, " God help me ! I should love 'er 
 jes' the same !"
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 IT was a still, listening night. After his " chores " 
 were done, Julius stood in the shed door and looked out. 
 The moon was shining. He could have read small print 
 by that fine, severe light, which made a sort of ethereal- 
 ized day throughout the mountain world. The snow had 
 shaken out of the pines, and left them portentous in silent, 
 attentive groups ; the drifts were silvered cold with moon- 
 touched crystals. Julius saw, but his attention was turned 
 inward. 
 
 His faith in Emma Webster was not shaken he had told 
 her the truth in that. What was it, then, that troubled 
 him what doubt, what formless dread? He had a dis- 
 mayed sense of having lost something intangible but pre- 
 cious. He tried to believe it was only a phase the reac- 
 tion of his over-urgent hopes, perhaps the reverse side of 
 his joy but he could not. He turned away hastily and 
 went into the house. 
 
 He found her waiting in her room, as she had promised. 
 The candle made flickering, concentric circles on the ceil- 
 ing, the fire in the sheet-iron stove pointed a long, straight 
 finger towards the wall. The curtain was drawn, but the 
 moon on the snow outside shone more brightly than the 
 fire and the candle together, for the glimmering whiteness 
 out there made the meshes of the curtain visible, and one 
 could even follow the outline of the peaks. 
 
 Emma was paler than he had ever seen her before.
 
 185 
 
 There was something ghastly in the immobile white of her 
 cheek and forehead. At sight of her his recent doubt 
 vanished and all his old tenderness returned. 
 
 " Ye're excited to-night," he said, pressing her back in 
 her seat, as she rose in agitation at his entrance. " Why 
 should ye tell it at least, now ? Let it go what's the 
 dif'rence? I don't care now." This was quite true, but 
 even in his anxiety for her immediate comfort he found 
 himself wondering whether he could always be satisfied 
 with ignorance. 
 
 Her eyes grew large and remonstrant. 
 
 " Julius, don't be good to me," she whispered. " That 
 kills me ! To have ye kind to me arter all I've done! Say 
 I mus 1 tell it rave at me, call me names, Julius only 
 don't, don't be good to me any more !" 
 
 He was pale, too, but his smile filled his face with some- 
 thing more vivid and beautiful than color. 
 
 " Come, then, we'll talk it over like good friends," he 
 said, soothingly. "Emmy, we love each other, don't we? 
 So why shouldn't we talk over what concerns us ? Not 't 
 I keer for it now ; I own I did, but I've got over that. I 
 love ye that's all I need to know. Don't go on if ye'd 
 ruther not; let it be where 'tis. See, Fm satisfied, why 
 shouldn't you be ?" 
 
 " I want to tell it," she answered, with that quick, dis- 
 tinct utterance which expresses an imperative need. 
 
 " Why, then, a few words '11 set it all right, V we kin 
 be 's happy 's ever. 'N' take yer own time V way, dear. 
 Tell me jes' 's much or little 's ye think best." 
 
 " I'll tell it all, word for word, from the beginnin'. Ye 
 think ye love me, Julius " 
 
 " I do love ye," was his steady answer.
 
 186 
 
 " No," she objected, in a low, passionate voice, " hate 
 me, hate me ! It's the punishment God meant fer me 
 the punishment I deserve." She stopped suddenly, her 
 face averted, her bosom heaving. He could have taken 
 her in his arms and comforted her, she seemed so afraid of 
 him and of what she had to confess. His doubts were all 
 silent now, and only his great love spoke. 
 
 The candle shone directly into her face, and she uncon- 
 sciously put up her hand to shield her eyes. He went 
 over and pushed it back so that her features were alto- 
 gether in shadow. 
 
 " Set down near 'nough so 't I won't have to speak 
 loud." 
 
 Gradually her eyes lowered before his, and she settled 
 back, letting her hands fall loosely over each other in her 
 lap. She sat thus for some time, silent, self-absorbed, her 
 face hardening into those brooding lines which fix the sor- 
 rows of a lifetime. He could not understand, except by 
 the instinct of sympathy and premonition, the busy search 
 of her mind into the past, the remorse which had made 
 her life a prey to memory, and which was to fasten vam- 
 pire-like upon his own happiness. He was silent, know- 
 ing that it was better to let her follow out her thoughts 
 in her own way. Could it be possible that, after all, her 
 revelation was something more than the phantasm of a 
 supersensitive conscience? He looked at her with a mo- 
 mentary revival of the fear he had felt before entering. 
 
 Finally she turned her face towards him so that their 
 eyes met. 
 
 " I mus' speak low," she said : " yer mother might hear 
 she won't be asleep fer hours." 
 
 He drew his chair a little closer to hers.
 
 187 
 
 " I kin hear," he said. 
 
 She leaned forward till her eyes fixed his on a level with 
 her own. Their narrow circles of faded blue had widened 
 into vivid spheres, through which a restless light glittered. 
 Her nostrils fluttered in sympathy with her interrupted 
 breathing; but there was resolve in every feature. He 
 would have pleaded with her further to keep her own se- 
 cret, but he saw that it was useless. Besides, an increas- 
 ing dread of her revelation made him powerless before his 
 own potential misery ; her look was such that he under- 
 stood the terror of her mind in contemplation of the 
 thought she was about to utter understood it without 
 knowing the cause. Such terror could originate only in 
 some sort of reality his good sense told him that. 
 
 " Julius, I'm a sinful woman !" 
 
 He shrank from her, in spite of a momentary resolve 
 to betray no feeling. The words were indefinite, but the 
 look and the tone were specific, horrible. Never had he 
 realized till that moment the power of the human face to 
 stamp the impress of fear upon the soul of another. He 
 listened for her next words with an eager dread. They 
 came faintly, but without hesitation. 
 
 " Have ye ever thort what a dreadful thing it is to pray 
 to be delivered from evil pray till yer nerves quiver V 
 yer heart breaks 'n' yit go straight ahead '' do it ?" 
 
 The word " evil " was a postponement, at least. He drew 
 a breath of relief and looked away. But her tense, self- 
 accusing face drew his eyes back with the resistless force 
 of magnetism. 
 
 " I mean murder." 
 
 She uttered the word quietly. It was followed by a 
 horrified silence.
 
 Then his voice came back to him in a gasp. 
 
 " Murder?" He echoed the word as a rock might have 
 done. 
 
 She nodded with hard emphasis. 
 
 "I'll tell it as God seen it happen, word for word." 
 She was going on, but he interrupted her again with that 
 long-drawn, exhalent echo : 
 
 "Murder! you?" 
 
 She did not turn or falter. 
 
 " If it's so dreadful to hear, what d' ye reckon 'tis to 
 tell? But I could stan' it to have flesh 'n' bone torn apart, 
 now 't I've made up my mind. Ye wouldn't think I could 
 clutch a knife 'n' kill have the spot picked out afore- 
 hand right over a man's heart, 'n' then drive the steel 
 straight home?" 
 
 "Ye' re mad to say it!" Julius cried out. 
 
 " Mad to do it ? yes. I done it, though, mad or not. 
 Straight through the heart here." She gave a thrust at 
 her own breast and Julius shuddered. " Straight, quick's 
 a knife could go, with a willin' hand behind it! I'd thort 
 it all out aforehand I'd done it a hundred times while I 
 laid awake at night." The hard, cold decision of her voice 
 took shape and substance before his eyes like ice. "He 
 fell back agin the kitchen table. He hung there a minute 
 by one arm ; then he rolled onto the floor." 
 
 Her voice grew inward and ventral. It was as if her 
 memory were describing the scene to her own conscious- 
 ness, and no one were there to listen. Julius watched her 
 with desperate eyes. 
 
 " Ye' re mad," he said again. " Ye never done that 
 
 never ! 
 
 " Listen !" she commanded, in the same remote voice
 
 189 
 
 the voice of a condemned soul calling from a distance. 
 Her terror was external now it had stopped in her eyes, 
 and she was gazing at him fixedly. " We'd been married 
 ten year " 
 
 " Married !" he repeated. 
 
 "Didn't I tell ye he was my husban'?" she asked, in 
 low, unmoved tones. " I had the marriage c'tif'cate framed 
 V hung up like mother's. D' ye know" she turned on 
 him suddenly with questioning eyes "d' ye know who's 
 the wretchedest o' all God's creators, Julius? It's a wife 
 Ys never loved ! 
 
 " I was so young a mere child. 'N' I tried so hard, 
 Julius! As I growed older V my endurance wore out, 
 I tried to ketch holt o' God V save myself. But things 
 was more 'n I could bear. All my props slipped away 
 from me I hadn't nothin' left to cling to, not even my 
 wish to be good. The knife was in my hand afore I 
 knowed, 'n' I had struck out with it it was so queer 
 'bout the knife, Julius. 'Feared like it knowed when 
 things was heapin' up on me 'n' my patience was givin' 
 out, fer then it allus showed itself. I tried to break it, I 
 hid it, I throwed it away. But I allus knowed where 
 'twas, 'n' if I didn't go 'n' fetch it, it allus come back 
 'thout my help. It 'ud put itself into my hand, 'n' I'd 
 find myself lookin' at it 'n' feelin' o' it 'n' wonderin' how 
 deep I could make it go. 'N' when he insulted me las' 
 June, when he called me vile names, it leaped into my 
 hands afore I knowed what it meant, 'n' the deed was 
 done in a flash. 'N' I " She passed her hands across 
 her eyes with a sick, reminiscent weariness, and then went 
 on, brokenly : " Sech queer, horrid years fer a woomarn 
 to pass through sech everlastin' years o' hatred 'n' de-
 
 190 
 
 spair! Did I tell ye how we was married? Shall I tell 
 ye that ?" 
 
 " Tell me whatever ye like," he answered, mournfully. 
 He was helpless before the destruction she was causing in 
 his own soul. 
 
 "I never loved 'im," she continued, as if talking to 
 herself. " I never did. It was mother 't fixed the hull 
 thing up. If father 'd been alive, he'd a-knowcd better 
 though they wouldn't a-been no need o' it then. But 
 he'd been dead fer years. He'd been a boat-builder down 
 in Maine, V he come to lowy when the country was new, 
 V he took up claims in the valley V proved up on 
 'em 'n' had 'em fer his own. 'N' when he died mother 'n' 
 me was alone in the world, fer I was the only child. We 
 didn't know nothin' 'bout managin' a farm, neither o' us 
 mother 'd been brought up in a village back East, 'n' 
 allus had a spite at the country, anyway ; 'n' things went 
 wrong, but we never suffered fer nothin'. We had the 
 land, 'n' we was allus sure o' a livin' from that. 
 
 " I was only fifteen when Jasper Madden come a-court- 
 in' me. I was younger 'n my age, too I hadn't never 
 been anywhere, except now 'n' then fer a day's trip with 
 father to Council Bluffs, 'n' wunst I went to Omaha on 
 the cars. I hadn't never keered fer nobody but father 
 'n' mother. If I ever thort o' marryin', it was to put it 
 off, like the Day o' Jedginent, or anything 't I wa'n't 
 ready fer. 'N' when Jasper Madden begun comin' to see 
 me, it skeered me at fust to think 't I was big 'nough to 
 make a full-grown man keer fer me. I hadn't nothin' 
 agin 'im, 'ceptin' he was old. I smiled to myself, but 
 didn't say nothin'. I didn't keer. He might come or 
 go it was all the same to me. He was old old 'nough
 
 191 
 
 to be my father. I didn't want to marry, but I hadn't 
 nothin' agin 'im. I'd rather a-stayed with my mother 'n 
 marry anybody I'd ever seen. 
 
 "But the farm was mortgaged I wonder why 
 they're all that way back there ? 'n' we had to borrow 
 money fer the int'rest. 'N' mother says, ' He could look 
 arter the farm along o' his own, 'n' mebbe I could git out 
 o' debt. He's a master-hand at managin'.' She seemed 
 worried 'n' put down. I could onderstan' 'bout the debts, 
 but the marryin' was a myst'ry. Only, I seen if I done 
 it, mother 'd be easy. 'Sides, I hadn't no objections, 
 'ceptin' a queer feelin' agin it. I'd a-done more 'n that to 
 keep mother from frettin'. 
 
 " ' Jasper Madden loves ye,' my mother told me. I 
 didn't doubt it, if he wanted to marry me. ' He'll make 
 ye a good husban',' says she. ' He's clost, but he's a good 
 pervider. His own farm 's kept up the best in the hull 
 len'th 'n' breadth o' the valley.' I knovved that, 'n' I 
 felt a sort o' pride at the thort o' bein' made mistress o' 
 it. I was so young I didn't know what it all meant. 
 'N' when I begun to talk .sorter fav'rable, mother seemed 
 so happy. Then I said to myself 't she knowed best 
 she'd allus decided things fer me. ' I'll marry 'im,' 1 
 says, fin'ly, ' if he'll let ye come 'n' live with me.' 'N' he 
 promised, 'n' the weddin'-day come. 
 
 " It was summer June. Everything happens in June ! 
 My husban' kep' 'is word 'bout mother's livin' with me I 
 sometimes wondered at it, afterwards. But I reckon he 
 seen where his int'rest laid. She moved all our things 
 over it was only a little ways, 'n' the Madden house was 
 big. 'N' so my married life begun."
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 SHE paused a little, laying her right hand in her left, 
 and holding it hard while her eyes narrowed with a look 
 of pained introspection. 
 
 " He was so cruel to me, Julius ! I'd took my mother's 
 word fer it 't he keercd fer me 'n' 'ud be kind to me. But 
 he wa'n't; he treated me badly from the fust day like 
 I was his slave 'n' he'd bought the right over me. His 
 very look when he come into the house was black with 
 blame; he was allus frownin', like I'd been tryin' to cross 
 'im in some o' his plans. 'N' when he tole me o' my 
 faults I know I had a good many, fer I was only a girl 
 he made out like they was monstrous sins. He scared 
 me I never knowed what he was goin' to do. I useter 
 hide when I heerd 'im comin', but I allus had to come out. 
 He knowed how he frightened me, too, 'n' gloried in it. 
 Many a time he glared at me acrost the table when the 
 vittles didn't suit 'im, till I had to git up 'n' leave so 's not 
 to burst out cryin' right afore 'im. I tried to call it only 
 his way 'n' not to take it to heart. I tole myself he 
 didn't mean nothin', 't like 's not I was very tryin'. But 
 I couldn't help feelin' it I'd a-been a stone not to keer. 
 He found fault with everything my way o' fryin' eggs, 
 my way o' weedin' the garden, my way o' scrubbin' the 
 floor the very way I wore my hair ; 'n' when I tried to 
 do things in other ways, he only found fault the more. 
 I tried to please 'im God knows I did. But he wouldn't
 
 see no good in the things I done it was all wrong, con- 
 trary to what he liked. I was patient no, not that; I 
 was subdued V afeerd. I learned to watch 'ira, wonderin' 
 what new fault he'd find in me. When he looked at me, 
 my heart sunk like lead ; V when he come near me, I 
 shrunk 'n' quivered, fer I never knowed what he might 
 do. 'N' if he was to strike me oh, I felt like I couldn't 
 a-lived arter that ! 
 
 " He didn't strike me not while mother lived. He 
 done everything short o' it, though. He tortured me in a 
 thousan' ways. He took away all the little trinkets I'd 
 had as a gal 'n' took pride in a little garnet ring 't father 
 give to me when I was six years old even the lace pin 
 o' silver 't father bought fer mother wunst in Council 
 Bluffs, 'n' 't she give me arter he died. What he done with 
 'em I dunno; I never dared to ask. I reckon he sold 'em, 
 though, 'n' stored the money away along o' his other gains. 
 I learned to work harder 'n' harder. I was strong 'n' 
 could stan' it, 'n' somehow it kep' me from thinkin'. Every- 
 body about 'im had to work. He was allus naggin' the 
 hired men to do extry jobs arter their day's work was 
 over. We was trained to his own use fer us 's fast 'n' shore 
 's what his own heart 'n' lungs was trained to the habits o' 
 his body. 
 
 " Mother died two year arter I was married. She'd 
 been ailin' a long time. I've allus b'lieved she was un- 
 happy o' my 'count, arter she seen what come o' all 'er 
 urgin'. But I never complained a word to 'er never 
 wunst. She growed thin 'n' piney-like, 'n' couldn't eat 
 My husban' watched 'er on the sly. I knowed what he 
 was thinkin' on, even if I didn't dare to say nothin'. I'd 
 learned to read 'is thoughts like they was my own.
 
 194 
 
 ' When the ole woomarn's gone,' he was thinkin', ' the 
 farm '11 be mine. Nell won't dare to stan' ont agin me.' 
 The farm was wuth a good deal now, 'n' yieldin' more 'n 
 we'd ever counted on. 
 
 " Mother's las' words was, ' I'm sorry, Nell !' I shall 
 allus 'member how she looked. 'N' then she kep' sayin' 
 ' Sorry, sorry, sorry,' over 'n' over, layin' there with 'er 
 eyes half shet, 'n' lookin' like she was out o' 'er head. 
 Jasper heerd it, 'n' kep' lookin' acrosst at me ; but I didn't 
 say nothin'. He knowed what it meant, though, 's well 's 
 what I did. 
 
 " 'N' arter the f un'ral the will was read 'n' the farm was 
 mine by right. I was skeered, fer I knowed I'd have a 
 row o' some sort. All I was afeerd of was 't he'd lose 'is 
 temper 'n' beat me. I could put up with anything but 
 that. 
 
 "'N' the very night arter the will was read he come to 
 me 'n' says, ' What be ye goin' to do with the farm ? 
 You can't run it.' He stood over me, lookin' down at me 
 till I had to turn away. ' No,' says I, ' I can't run it.' 
 'Well,' says he, 'then what's the use o' keepin' it in yer 
 name ?' ' Take it,' says I, ' I don't keer fer it.' 'N' he 
 smiled it was 'most the first time I'd ever seen 'im smile. 
 I signed some papers I d' know what they was, but arter 
 that the farm was his, 'n' he treated me wuss 'n ever. 
 
 " I done the work o' two men .on them farms. I kep' 
 the house 'thout help from nobody. I mowed, I chopped 
 wood, I ploughed when we was short o' help out-doors. He 
 .watched me all the time, findin' fault. We made money 
 I know that. My butter was in demand up to Council 
 Bluffs the grocers give us a fancy price fer it fer their 
 richest customers. Jasper took the money I never had
 
 195 
 
 the handlin' o' a dollar o' it. Some o' it was in gold, hid 
 under a brick in the fireplace. I seen 'ira hide it there, 
 but I never let 'im know. He'd a-struck me fer that, I 
 made shore. That was what I was tryin' to keep off, 
 them days. I was willin' to make a nigger o' myself if 
 only he wouldn't beat me. 
 
 " It was a hard life, Julius. I'd allus b'lieved in God, 
 like young folks do because they're told to, jes' like 
 they're told to wash their faces V comb their hair. But 
 now I begun to doubt. If they was a God, how could He 
 let me be so mis'able? I laid awake nights, tryin' to 
 reason it out. I tell ye, changes o' b'lief make hard pil- 
 lows I've found that out. From faith I passed to doubt 
 slowly my trust faded little by little, like day fades into 
 night ; 'n' from doubt I was whirled back to trust ag'in in 
 a way 't almos' took my breath. But that was a long 
 time arter. 
 
 " I didn't try to hold out agin my husban' I didn't 
 dare. I growed more 'n' more afeerd o' 'im ; I knowed 
 he'd beat me if I give 'im half a chance. It's easy to say 
 what I orter a-done^ I know now ; but if I'd a-run away, 
 like I thort o' doin' time 'n' ag'in, I made shore he'd 
 ketch me 'n' bring me back. I've heerd my father say 
 how it's easy fer folks 't never smelt salt water to tell 
 what they 'd do if they was in a shipwreck, but they don't 
 know how weak they be till the waters is pourin' over' 'em 
 'n' they feel theirselves sinkin' down, down into the 
 depths. 
 
 " He took delight in tormentin' me, in keepin' me en- 
 tirely by myself, A neighbor give me two little kittens, a 
 black un 'n' a gray un innercent little things 't scam- 
 pered aroun' V sometimes made me laugh. If I'd a-showed
 
 196 
 
 a hatred o' 'em, he'd a-kep' 'em to kill off the mice ; but 
 when he seen I loved 'em 'n' was sort o' half-way happy 
 with 'em, he threatened to kill 'em, 'cause they took so 
 much milk. He said I fed 'em cream, 'n' 't the butter 
 was fallin' off o' that account. 'N' one day he brained 
 'em with a hatchet afore my face 'n' eyes, while I was 
 pourin' out the milk for 'ern in the broken sasser by the 
 wood-shed door. I didn't cry I didn't say a word. I 
 took 'em 'n' buried 'em under the currant-bushes by the 
 back fence, 'n' went into the house 'n' done up the supper 
 dishes. ' Anyways,' I said to myself, ' he hasn't struck me 
 yit', but I knowed in my heart he would my own dread 
 o' it was assurance 'nough. But arter he killed the kittens, 
 I never made no show o' keerin' fer nothin'. I waVt 
 sure I did keer fer nothin'. My heart seemed hard 'n' cold 
 froze up like a lump o' ice. But I worked harder 'n 
 ever. I wa'n't goin' to give 'ira a chance to beat me fer 
 laziness, anyhow. 
 
 " One day he went to The Bluffs fer suthin', 'n' left me 
 to thin out the beets 'n' transplant 'em into a new bed. I 
 done it the best I knowed how I allus done my work the 
 best I knowed how, I was so feered he'd lift his hand agin 
 me. This was some time arter mother died it seems like 
 a thousan' years, when I look back, but it couldn't a-been 
 long. I'd growed more fearful o' 'im 'n ever; the bare 
 sight o' 'im forced the blood to ray heart 'n' made me 
 tremble. 
 
 " Well, when he come back from The Bluffs he went 
 out 'n' looked at my work, 'n' I stood at the bedroom 
 winder, peekin' out. I seen 'im bend over 'n' pull up two- 
 three beets 't I'd transplanted 'n 1 look at the roots. Then 
 he flung 'em down 'n' started fer the house. When he
 
 197 
 
 turned I could see his face, 'n' then I knowed what was 
 goin' to happen. I went out into the garden myself I 
 felt like I'd ruther have it come out there. I was cold ; I 
 felt like I was dissolvin' drop by drop, like snow afore the 
 sun. 
 
 " He seen me 'n' come straight torrards me. ' It's come 
 it's come at last!' I said to myself, 'n' my thoughts 
 made a queer sound in my head like rain among leaves. 
 ' They're put in too dost together,' says he. ' 'N' the roots 
 
 is as crooked as !' I didn't say a word I knowed 
 
 'twouldn't do no good. 'N' then then it come, jes' 's I 
 knowed it would ! He was tired with his long ride, 'n' his 
 errands hadn't turned out well ; 'n' he struck me aside the 
 head with his doubled fist it was on this side, here so 't 
 my jaws knocked together, 'n' I bit a big hole in iny 
 tongue. I'd a-tumbled flat if it hadn't been fer the fence 
 near me; I fell back agin that, 'n' somehow stayed there. 
 By-'n'-by I spit out the blood 'n' went back into the house. 
 I sot down by the winder 'n' looked out. It was 'long in 
 the arternoon. The children had been let loose from the 
 school-house a quarter o' a mile east o' there, 'n' was run- 
 nin' down the road, callin' to each other. A man went 
 past with some pack-animals, drivin' 'em torrards the river. 
 That was all I seen. They was a great darkness over every- 
 thing. 
 
 " I'd allus made shore I'd die if I was struck like that. ( 
 It's queer how tough us human critters be ! I didn't do 
 nothin' onusu'l. I kep' on livin' 'n' workin' jes' the 
 same. I had supper on time that very night, 'n' the hired 
 men never knowed no dif'rence. But I was changed in- 
 side. From that hour I hated that man ! Afore then I 
 was only afeerd o' 'im, but now 1 hated 'n' feared 'im
 
 198 
 
 both. At fust it skeered me to have sech feelin's they 
 was new to me ; 'n' I laid awake at night, 'n' my con- 
 science kep' watch with me 'n' showed me horrid glimpses 
 o' my wickedness. But the hatred growed. 'N' afore 
 long I gloried in it it was the one pleasure I had 't he 
 couldn't take away from me. I useter look at 'im 'n' 
 think, 'I hate ye, hate ye, hate ye! 'N' ye can't help 
 yerself. If ye was to flatten me under a board 'n' crush 
 the breath out o' me, I'd go on hatin' ye in the nex' 
 world, 'n' my las' thort in this 'ud be hate, hate, hate !' It 
 growed 'n' growed, 'n' I was glad. It was my wealth, my 
 comfort. The more it growed, the more property I had 't 
 he never could touch or suspect. I felt like a miser over 
 it. In time I had horrid visions o' what my hate might 
 do. I useter think straight at him while we sot at table : 
 4 If ye was dyin',' I said to 'irn in my thorts ' if ye was 
 dyin' 'n' I was shore ye'd never git well 'n' beat me fer it, 
 I'd grab yer throat, 'n' hang on 'n' shake till the breath 
 rattled 'n' left ye !' I had spells o' horror at my own 
 wickedness, but they growed fewer 'n' fewer. 'T wa'n't 
 no use to think o' runnin' away. I knowed he'd find me 
 'n' fetch me back, 'n' make my life harder 'n ever. 
 
 " Arter that fust blow, it come easier fer 'im to strike 
 me. I looked fer it whenever anything went wrong. I 
 wa'n't never s'prised to see 'im bearin' down on me, his 
 eyes blazin', his fist raised up. I growed so used to it 
 't I didn't even cringe when I seen 'im comin'. I jes' 
 stood up 'n' took it, 'n' then went on with whatever I 
 was doin'. But I hated 'im my God ! how I hated 
 that man ! I've felt my hair raise at sight o' 'im, not 
 'cause I was skeered, but 'cause a loathin' went through 'n' 
 through me, like alectricity 'n' thunder. He'd made the
 
 world a hell outside o' me ray heart a hell inside. He'd 
 made me hate the ground I walked on, the sky above 
 me myself God. I went aroun' quiet enough, but they 
 wa'n't a atom in my hull body 't didn't stir 'n' cry out 
 whenever I set eyes on 'im. 
 
 "One day I picked up a newspaper 'n' read 'bout a 
 man's cuttiu' his throat. 'I kin cut my throat, too,' I 
 said to myself, ' if I ever feel like I can't stan' it no longer.' 
 Then I thort o' other ways poison, hangin', drowndin'. 
 Arter that I felt more comf'table. I had control o' things, 
 arter all. Whenever he made life unbearable fer me, I 
 could quit it. I liked the idee o' the river best. The 
 Missoury 's a good river fer that kind o' thing it draws 
 the body down to the bottom, holds it there, 'n' lets the 
 sand drift over it till it's covered up. It's a rare thing 't 
 a body 's found arter the Missoury gits a holt o' it. But 
 the river was quite a way off, 'n' I wanted suthin' clost to 
 hand, suthin' I could depend on ; 'n' one day up to The 
 Bluffs I bought a knife not a butcher's knife exactly, not 
 so big ; but suthin' like it. It had a smooth handle 't 
 jes' fitted my hand. I hid it so 't he'd never know ; 'n' 
 when I was mos' mis'able, when my body was black 'n' 
 blue with the blows he'd showered on me, I useter steal 
 off by myself 'n' run my right thumb along the edge o' 
 the blade to see how sharp it was. 'N' the touch o' it 
 comf'ted me more 'n any livin' friend could a-done. 
 
 " 'N' by-'n'-by it come into my head 't what 'ud kill 
 me might be used to kill 'im, too. When that thort 
 struck me, I could a-cried fer joy. I 'member the time* 
 well ; I was gittin' ready fer bed, 'n' he laid there with 'is 
 face torrards the candle-light, fast asleep. Arter the thort 
 come to me, I stood lookin' at 'im, 'n' I longed to do the
 
 200 
 
 deed. Then I was afeerd he'd open 'is eyes on me V 
 read my thort, so I turned away to the winder V stood 
 there sort o' breathless. I didn't dare to turn torrards 'im 
 ag'in, fer fear o' what I might do. They was queer sounds 
 aroun' the house ghostly noises 't orter a-made me shiver. 
 But I felt uplifted like I wanted to swing my arms V 
 cry out. How 'd it happen 't I'd never thort o' killin' 'im 
 afore? 'I raus' think o' suthin' else/ I said to myself. 
 ' I shall do it now if T let my thorts run on it.' I tried to 
 fix my mind on what I seen outside the tall grass wavin' 
 in the wind, the new-ploughed ridge in front o' the house 
 where they was makin' a new road-bed. The moon was 
 shinin' over the big flat valley. ' It's the lamp 't lights 
 the world to bed,' I said, tryin' to keep my thorts fixed on 
 the big white thing. But they run on in spite o' myself. 
 'A dark night 'ud be a better time fer murder!' Then I 
 drawed the curtain down clost 'n' blowed out the candle, 
 V shot my eyes afore I reached the bed 'n' crep' in. 
 
 "Them days! every one o' 'em left me harder 'n' 
 wickeder 'n it found me. 'N' they stretched out into 
 years. I couldn't make up my mind what to do. Should 
 I kill myself 'n' end the bizness that way ? But allus I 
 seemed to find stren'th to bear a little more, 'n' so the day 
 o' reckonin' was put off. Or should I kill 'im fust 'n' then 
 myself? I put off decidin', but I allus knowed I'd have 
 to come to it in time. I liked the last way best him 
 fust, 'n' me arter. I could do it I had the knife. That 
 gave me an advantage over 'im 't sometimes almost took 
 my breath. ' His soul 'ud go down, down to burnin' hell,' 
 I useter think. ' 'N' mine 'ud foller like lead. 'N' then 
 what 'ud we do together in that orfle place ?' Some- 
 times I was glad o' his wickedness, 'n' was willin' to put up
 
 201 
 
 with 'is abuse fer the sake o' the punishment I knowed 
 he'd git. I wa'n't afeerd myself; I'd suffered too much 
 to keer fer what might come arterwards. Besides, hell 
 wouldn't be hell to me if I seen 'irn sufferin' like he de- 
 served."
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 " MY mind run so much on death 't everything made 
 me think o' it. Every evenin' made a picter in the sky 
 o' the end o' all things. In the mornin', as I watched 
 the sun rise, my thorts 'ud go back to mother, V I was 
 glad 't the sun 'nd never come up the sky fer her ag'in. 
 When the mist passed away from the Nebrasky bluffs 
 they useter remind me o' gray, dyin' faces, settlin' into 
 ghastly death-lines. I could see white, starin' faces like 
 masks in the sky ; the very flowers seemed cal'lated only 
 to grow over graves. At times the prairy closed in aroun' 
 me like high green walls, V I felt like screamin' out V 
 beatin' at it with my hands. The very sunshine turned 
 black in my eyes by spells. I useter wonder if I was 
 goin' crazy, 'n' I hoped I was. I knowed I wouldn't 
 sense my mis'ry then. 
 
 "At night, arter my work was done, I useter wander 
 aroun', thinkin', thinkin', allus thinkin'. Sometimes I 
 puzzled fer days over a word or a idee 't happened to 
 come to me 'n' 't didn't have the least connection with me 
 or my troubles. I 'member tryin' fer weeks, it seems to 
 me now, to think o' what father useter say 'bout rich peo- 
 ple. Fin'ly it come to me one night when I was settin' 
 by the river ' Full purses, empty heads.' It hadn't a 
 thing to do with my own dreadful life, but I started back 
 home, light 'n' joyful 's if I'd found a world o' comfort. 
 Wunst I crop' up under the meetin'-house winder on
 
 203 
 
 prayer-meetin' night V listened. Parson Barrows was 
 speakin'. ' Why should we know our feller-bein's?' says 
 he. 'To know ourselves. Why should we know our- 
 selves? To know God.' I laughed out loud at that. 
 ' The more / see o' my feller-bein's, the more I know o' 
 the devil.' It done me good to listen V mock all by my- 
 self. I went home, laughin' all the way. 
 
 "But one eveniri' shall I ever fergit that evenin'? I 
 felt like I'd go wild if I went to bed, so I crop' out the 
 back door into the garden ' n' wandered aroun' fer a long 
 time. I felt better there I could breathe, 'n' they wa'n't 
 no walls to stifle me. Fin'ly the garden seemed to grow 
 small aroun' me, 'n' I went out the front gate 'n' stood 
 in the road. Everything was so still I heerd the wind 
 in the grass like a rush o' blood to my head. I mus' 
 walk about or die. I took torrards the river 'n' walked 
 fast. 
 
 "The church was right on my road. When I got near 
 I seen lights 'n' heerd singin'. Yes, it was prayer-meet- 
 in' night. Fools! did they think they'd found God? 
 I went on. ' I reckon I'll hear some more o' Parson Bar- 
 rows's flowers o' rhetoric,' I thort. ' Shall I creep up 'n' 
 listen ?' Las' time I heerd 'im he was talkin' about the 
 sin o' lyin', 'n' he said : 'A lie is like the gold-inwoven 
 robe of a king ; it shines resplendently, but it clings 
 heavily to its wearer.' He was a young man jest out o' 
 some college. Yes, I'd go 'n' listen ag'in. It 'ud give 
 me suthin' to laugh at, anyhow. 
 
 " I was clost to the church now. The singin' had 
 stopped. Then I heerd a voice not Parson Barrows's 
 a voice 't sent queer shivers through me. Somehow it 
 dragged me torrards it, 'n' I got up clost to the winder
 
 204 
 
 where the box-elders made a thick shadder. There I 
 stood with both hands on a hitchin'-post V listened. 
 
 " The voice went on. ' It's the preacher from West 
 Townshend,' I says to myself. 'I heerd 'im ask the 
 blessin' at last year's quarterly meetin'.' I kep' listenin'. 
 I didn't look at 'im, though I could a-seen 'im easy. Ole 
 man Pechin was settin' jest inside the winder. He 
 hadn't but one eye, 'n' that was on the preacher. He was 
 listenin' so hard 't he was fergittin' to say ' Glory be to 
 God!' whenever the preacher made a stop. Sech a voice ! 
 D'ye know how glycerine feels on sore, chapped hands? 
 His voice went through my nerves jes' so, calm 'n' cool 
 I could a-listened ferever. Ole man Pechin coughed, 'n' 
 I felt mad at 'im, like he'd done a profane thing. I 
 wanted to listen 'n' listen 'n' hear nothin' else I wanted 
 to fill myself with that good sound. It went through 'n' 
 through me, heavy 'n' sweet 'n' tender the voice o' a 
 big, strong, good man. I took it in like a sponge takes 
 water. 'N' when he stopped speakin' 'n' they begun 
 singin' ag'in, I turned away torrards home. I didn't want 
 to hear nothin' else arter that. 
 
 " I walked very slow. Suthin' had happened to me 
 I couldn't tell what. Only I felt so calm, so soothed I 
 seemed to be leanin' agin suthin' I couldn't see. They 
 wa'n't a evil thort in my mind nowheres ; my head felt 
 empty 'n' rested ; it was like I was beginnin' a new life, 
 'thout mem'ry or regret. The moon was full ; it made 
 the valley look like it was coated with frost. They was a 
 white fog along the river. I could see it, layin' 's still 's 
 if 'twas solid 'n' had been piled up by people. Some o' 
 the preacher's words come back to me. I'd heerd 'n' 
 'membered 'em 'thout tryin'.
 
 205 
 
 " ' But I say unto you that ye resist not evil ; but who- 
 soever shall smite thee on the right cheek, turn to him the 
 other also.' I stopped in the middle o' the road. ' Them 
 ain't his words,' I said ; ' they're Christ's. I've heerd 
 'em afore.' 
 
 " Then others come to me 'peared like they was 
 droppin' down on me like the starlight from the upper 
 air: 
 
 " ' Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, 
 and I will give you rest.' 
 
 " ' Them's Christ's words, too,' says I, stoppin' ag'in. 
 " ' Where do they come from ? Is He near me ?' The 
 idee frightened me. I looked aroun', but couldn't see 
 nothin' but the tall grass 'n' some bushes here 'n' there. 
 I looked up. There was the moon, big 'n 1 white, 'n' all 
 over the sky the stars pricked through. 'N' now the 
 words moved right along : ' Take my yoke upon you, and 
 learn of me ; ... and ye shall find rest unto your souls. 
 . . . For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.' 
 
 " I sot down beside the road, holdin' ray head in my 
 han's. ' Rest unto my soul,' I said, tryin' to think it out. 
 ' Is it true is it true ? Why, it can't be it's jes' what 
 I've wanted all these years. Rest unto ray soul ? No, it's 
 too good to be true. 'N' yet it mus* be ! Christ said 
 it the preacher b'lieves it.' I looked up at the stars I 
 knowed now how 'twas when the mornin' stars sung to- 
 gether ! ' It's all true,' they seemed to say. ' We know 
 we've seen everything from the beginnin' o' time. It's 
 true, true, true !' My own soul give a sort o' shout in an- 
 swer. ' True, true !' That word ran all through me, all 
 aroun' me, all along the cloudless sky. I held my breath 
 'n' listened. Everything seemed alive that night. The
 
 206 
 
 wind advised me. They was tender sounds in the grasses 
 all aroun' me. I sot still 'n' listened, jes' like I'd done to 
 the preacher's voice. 
 
 " ' Ye shall find rest unto your souls.' 
 
 " ' That's what I want !' I cried out. ' Rest unto my 
 soul rest 't '11 never alter in spite o' blows 'n' abuse. 
 Rest, rest !' I found myself on my knees, gaspin' out the 
 word. ' Lord, give me rest unto my soul !' 
 
 "Then I begun to think over my wickedness the evil 
 't had been in my mind all these years. 'Rest?' says I. 
 'How kin that be? I'm lost lost! I'm a murderer in 
 rny thorts. I've killed that man a hundred times with my 
 hate o' him.' I lived over my married life in a flash 
 the anger 'n' loathin' 'n' bitterness 't had destroyed my 
 soul. God had give me a conscience planted it in me 
 like the tree o' the knowledge o' good 'n' evil in Eden, 
 'n' I. had killed it, torn it up, trampled it into the dirt, 'n' 
 was glad to be red o' it. I hadn't even missed it now fer 
 years. Surely, it wa'n't fer sech as me to find rest. I 
 mus' go on in the way I'd chosen. I'd made my bed, 'n' 
 mus' lay on it. ' Fergivo,' said a voice somewheres in the 
 air. 'Don't think bad, revengeful thorts no more; give 
 up yerself entirely ^be willin'. to be nothin' fer Christ's 
 sake. My yoke is easy ' The words brought a sob 
 into my throat. ' Be quiet,' the stars advised. ' Why 
 worry yerself, why keep ole wounds from healin' ? Lay 
 all yer troubles on Christ it was fer sech as you He 
 died !' I couldn't make it out, yet 'twas 's plain 's day 
 that it was true. What ! Christ died fer me a wuth- 
 less sinner, a murderer ten times over ? Fer me, 't life 
 had took so much more from 'n it had ever give back? 
 Fer me, naked 'n' forlorn swep' clean o' all good 's a
 
 207 
 
 thrashing-floor arter the grain 's all been took away ? 
 Me, carryin' nothin' to Him but this load o' sin V 
 shame? 'Only come,' says the voice. 'That load is a 
 precious thing in Christ's sight. Lay it all at His feet 
 He lived 'n' died to ease mankind o' sech burdens. He 
 will perfect ycr life. He will give ye power to overcome 
 evil. Trust, only trust, 'n' leave the rest to Him !' 
 
 " ' I will !' I said, kneelin' beside the road 'n' givin' up 
 altogether. ' Only come, Lord Christ, only give me the 
 peace ye promise, V I'll try my bes' to do Thy will !' I 
 seemed to be growin' light 'n' happy. 'Be I dyin' ?' I 
 wondered. 'Thank God thank God!' I fell forrards 
 on the grass 'n' laid there, I d' know how long. When 
 I come to the moon had gone down, but I knowcd 'thout 
 lookin' up 't the stars was shinin'. I could see 'em layin' 
 at rest on the still pool at my feet. I got up 'n' went 
 home on wings. 'Jasper kin do his wust now,' I said out 
 loud as I run. ' I've found One 't kin help me One 't '11 
 take my part !' 
 
 " Arter that I begun life over. Nothin' troubled me 
 nothin' put me out. Troubles dropped into my great joy, 
 'n' it closed over 'ern 'n' never left a trace. I seen God in 
 everything. The sunshine on the tall grass 'minded me 
 o' what I'd heerd father say 'bout the mornin's bright- 
 ness on the sea. It was so beautiful ! 'N' when the rain 
 varnished the dull green leaves, 'n' the sun come out 'n' 
 flashed acrosst 'em I felt like I was a dweller in the New 
 Jerusalem ! The very flowers the jimson-weed 'n' the 
 sunflowers 'n' the milk-weed as they drooped on their 
 stalks all day, seemed thankin' God fer a life so sweet. 
 They was moods in everything. In the mornin' the hull 
 world shook with the laughter o' the sun ; 'n' when the
 
 208 
 
 cvenin' come up from behind the Nebrasky bluffs, all Nater 
 seemed to fold 'er hands V shet 'er eyes V say, ' Now I 
 lay me down to sleep.' The tears useter come into my 
 eyes when I thort how near V good God was. 
 
 "I seen everything in a new light. A ole man in the 
 neighborhood died a bad, unrepentant ole man. His 
 life flickered fer days, V fin'ly went out in a stench. I 
 'member how full o' pity my heart was fer 'im ; I knelt 
 time V ag'in V prayed God to have mercy on his soul. 
 I felt I knowed 't Christ had took my sins off o' rne, but 
 it had growed so clear to me 't the germs o' all good 'n' 
 evil lay in us, like seeds in the ground, only waitin' their 
 chance to spring up 'n' bring forth fruit, each accordin' 
 to its kind. 'N' though I knowed my sins was fergiven 
 me, I compared myself with Christ, not with my neighbors ; 
 'n' that kep' me from growin' lifted up 'n' overbearin'. 
 
 " I couldn't go to church it 'ud displease my husban'. 
 'No matter,' says I to myself, 'God is everywhere. He's 
 here in this room this very minute. Why should I want 
 to go to church to find Him ?' So I made a little service 
 o' my own 't I could say over 'n' over while I worked. My 
 religion was my abundant comfort a pure stream flowin' 
 out from God's throne 'n' bearin' His voice to me. I was 
 filled with a great, meltin' love a love 't was bigger 'n 
 I was, 'n' overflowed onto everything aroun' me. I pit- 
 ied my husban' ; it was dreadful 't he should be shet off 
 'm all 't was makin' me so happy, wrapped up in hisself, 
 deef to the faintest reachin' voice o' good. I even loved 
 'im for a while. Fer wa'n't he, too, a child o' God 1 Be- 
 sides, I owed 'im a debt if he hadn't treated me so bad, 
 I'd never a-found the peace 't had come to me. 'N' so I 
 seen 't they was a good side even to evil.
 
 " He wa'n't no kinder to me, but I didn't mind it now. 
 I didn't want to die ; I wanted to live V do the Lord's 
 will on airth. I was happy, happy ; I didn't feel the 
 ground under me, I was so light ; I'd reached the land o' 
 Ceulah 'thout the pain o' passin' through the valley o' the 
 shadder. I bore the blows 'thout feelin' 'em or Christ 
 bore 'em fer me. It was my trial, 'n' I b'lieved 'twas a 
 means o' grace. It was easy 'nough, with Christ allus at 
 hand. Often, when the blows fell thick 'n' fast, I felt 
 sorter lifted out o' myself my soul above my body, joy- 
 ful 'n' serene. ' More more !' I could a-cried when he 
 struck me. ' Let me bear more, to show how strong Christ 
 has made me !' I was in love with sufferin' ; I could a-died 
 every hour in the day 'n' not cried out wunst. I'd fergot 
 my plans o' suicide 'n' murder; I 'membered Christ only, 
 who is life 'n' love. I'd hid the knife away somers afore 
 that night when I got religion, 'n' I hadn't thort o' it sence. 
 I'd fergot entirely where 'twas. I useter doubt if 'twas me 
 't had planned them wicked things. It was 'bout this time 
 I read in a newspaper how a drunken murderer was ketchcd 
 in the act, 'n' how he drivelled 'n' jabbered o' his crime. I 
 might a-been like that if the grace o' God hadn't saved me. 
 
 "Time went on. I felt settled, sure o' myself. My 
 life laid all plain afore me like ye've seen a field out- 
 lined with a long furrow afore it's ploughed. I found 
 comfort in everything. I'd ketch hold o' a little word 
 soraers, in suthin' I'd heerd or read, 'n' go aroun' sayin' 
 it over 'n' over, 'n' feelin' so happy 'bout it. I 'member 
 wunst I found a little poem in a newspaper, 'n' two lines 
 stuck in my thorts fer days. They was: 
 
 'All are needed by each one; 
 Nothin 1 is good 'n' fair alone.'
 
 210 
 
 It was a hull sermon to me. It put my own wish outside 
 o' me, in black V white, to fill my life with good works 
 V prove 't I was needed by others. 
 
 " But ye kin see how it 'ud come out. I couldn't keop 
 up to the level o' that fust joy. How could I ? 'Tain't 
 in nater to be on airth V in heaven all to wunst, 'n' that's 
 the way I'd been livin'. Suthin' in me weakened it 
 wa'n't my faith, that was 's strong 's ever. Mebbe my 
 nerves sorter give out a woornarn's sometimes does. I 
 sunk back slow not to where I had been ; no, I never 
 could a-done that, arter the way I fust come into the 
 kingdom. My faith was 's firm 's a rock ; I loved God 
 more 'n' more but it wa'n't new no longer. 'N' not 
 bein' new, it didn't take up all my mind, 'n' I had time 
 to think o' my mis'ries ag'in. 'N' my life was so dread- 
 ful ! I begun to feel the blows jes' like I useter do. I 
 brooded over 'em I seen myself wuss treated 'n other 
 wimmin. The ole hate stirred in me I felt it 'n' prayed 
 agin it like a mad woomarn. I couldn't b'lieve the Lord 
 'ud pick me up out o' the mire 'n' then drop me back 
 ag'in. ' Don't let me go,' I kep' prayin'. ' Christ, Christ, 
 don't let me go !' 
 
 " I found the knife one day arter he'd been beatin' me. 
 I 'member how I looked at it'n' wondered if I ever could 
 git red o' it. 'N' a voice inside me seemed to say, ' Git 
 red o' yer own wicked heart, 'n' the knife won't do no 
 harm.' I put it away ag'in, but every wunst in a while 
 I'd stop my work 'n go 'n' look at it. Day arter day I'd 
 go 'n' look at it, 'n' turn away weaker 'n when I come. 
 One day I made up my mind to settle the matter, wunst 
 fer all. ' This or Christ?' I thort, as I held it in my hand. 
 But I couldn't decide. I chose atween the two time 'n'
 
 211 
 
 ag'in, but I allus had it to do over. The knife follered me 
 like the Spirit itself. The truth was, I wanted the knife 
 'n' Christ too. 'N' when I seen I couldn't have 'em both, 
 
 I half wished I'd never found the Master's way so 't I might 
 be left to foller my own. I looked into the Bible wunst to 
 see whether the Lord was still with me. 'N' there I read : 
 ' Whither thou goest, I will go ; 'n' where thou lodgest, I 
 will lodge.' It made me mad then to see how the Lord 
 was bent on henderin' me. He had got a holt o' me, 'n' 
 wouldn't let me go. 
 
 " One day I took the knife 'n' went down to the crick 
 in the prairy back o' the house, intendin' to throw it in. 
 
 I 1 choose Christ wunst for all,' I says on the way. 'This 
 time settles it.' The cricks is dif'rent in lowy from what 
 they be out here slow, black, coilin' things, slippin' along 
 atween steep cut-off banks. When ye come to one onex- 
 pected, ye feel like ye'd run acrosst a snake in the grass. 
 I stopped on the bank and cal'lated, the knife in my 
 hand. 
 
 " ' What's the use o' throw in' it in ?' says I. ' If I should 
 want to use it if I should have to use it ' It 'ud be a 
 fearful thing to need the knife 'n' know I'd flung it away ! 
 So I buried it three paces from a live-oak down there I 
 counted so 't I needn't make a mistake when I wanted to 
 dig it up. 'N' inside o' a week ray hate got the better o' 
 me ag'in, 'n' I brought it up to the house 'n' felt like I'd 
 found a ole friend wunst more."
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 " I GROWED more V more impatient o' bavin' my will 
 curbed that way. I was bound band 'n' foot I was the 
 slave o' this power I'd ast to keep me from sin. If God 
 'ud only fergit me fer a minute 'n' let me have my way ! 
 They was times when every nerve o' my body tingled to 
 do the deed, but a power stronger 'n what I was held me 
 back I resisted God, I fought Him. But what's the use o' 
 tryin' to measure our stren'th with His ? I reckon I must 
 a-sorter lost my mind, fer I took to prayin' 't He'd leave 
 me to do as I liked. I prayed 'n' prayed, knowin' all the 
 time He wouldn't listen to that prayer. ' Let me kill 'im,' 
 I promised on my knees, ' 'n' then I'll be good ferever !' 
 'N' I watched fer the minute when the Lord 'ud leave me 
 to myself, 'n' I kep' the knife with me all the time. 
 
 " Well, a year ago or more my busban' hired Eeuben 
 Goodell to work on the farm. He's the man ye call Tom 
 Taylor out here. Then things got wuss 'n ever, if that 
 could be, fer Goodell was mixed up with 'em. I didn't 
 like 'im from the fust, though I couldn't tell why. When 
 he spoke to me alone, I allus felt like Eve must when the 
 serpent up 'n' talked to 'er. He hadn't been there a week 
 till he seen how matters was atween my husban' 'n' me, 'n' 
 then he begun to make up to me. Fust he hung aroun' 
 'thout sayin' nothin', but keepin' his eyes on me in sech a 
 queer way. He had the eyes o' the devil they widened 
 'n' closed with secb a sly, watchful look. He made me
 
 213 
 
 little presents, he follered me 'bout my work, he done er- 
 rands fer me. I wa'n't easy 'bout it, but I couldn't tell 
 what was wrong. Bein' a married woomarn, I never thort 
 o' his reel meanin'. 'N' when I did notice, I made shore I 
 was mistook. It couldn't be true V me a married woom- 
 arn ! So I didn't say nothin' I'd got trouble 'nough'thout 
 borrerin' none. But Jasper seen. He was the fust one 't 
 reely opened my eyes. He kep' comin' on us onexpected. 
 I 'lowed 'twas queer but it might be accident. But when 
 I seen 'im peekin' at us 'round corners, 'n' through cracks 
 V knot-holes, I made shore suthin' mus' bp wrong. Then 
 I tried to fight Goodell off, but he seen how feerd o' my 
 husban' I was 'n' knowed I wouldn't dare to complain, so 
 he growed 'bolder 'n' bolder. He made motions towards 
 me afore my husban's eyes, like they was a understan'in' 
 atween us. One day he grabbed me by the wrists 'n' held 
 me tight, 'n' made me listen to 'im I shudder now to 
 think o' his words 'n' my helplessness; 'n' jes' then my 
 husban' come from behind the shed where he'd been 
 watchin'. He made shore I'd 'lowed Goodell to hold my 
 hands, 'n' I don't wonder. 'N' arter that it did seem like 
 the devil 'd been let loose in that valley. 
 
 " I wanted Goodell to leave, but he'd signed a agree- 
 ment fer a year 'n' wouldn't go. It did seem like God 
 had fersaken me, but He hadn't, fer my husban' was still 
 alive. 'N' so the winter passed sech a long, dreadful 
 winter. They was big winds no end o' 'em ; V many's 
 the day I've stood at the winder watchin' the heightcnin' 
 clouds on the Nebrasky bluffs, 'n' listenin' to the bellerin' 
 o' the savage storms, 'n' hoped 't the house 'ud blow away 
 with all o' us in it. Outside, the wind, the storm, the bitter 
 snow ; inside, the passions V hatreds o' a pack o' demons.
 
 214 
 
 " The winter passed, V the spring. It was June las' 
 June. It seemed better in the warm weather, fer'I could 
 git out-doors 'n' walk aroun'. But 'twas bad 'nough even 
 then. I felt like I was hemmed in on all sides, I never 
 knowed what was afore me. It was like bein' in a tunnel 
 ye 'member the one ye took me in wunst, down to 
 Rothschild's? everything was dark; I kep' runnin' up 
 agin things 't bruised me. 'N' still the Lord's hand was 
 on me V I couldn't have ray way. 
 
 " Then one day Reuben Goodell ast me to run away 
 with 'im. Run away with 'im ! I'd 's soon think o' 
 runnin' away with Beelzebub hisself. I stood fer a min- 
 ute 'thout the stren'th to speak I could a-died o' shame 
 'n' anger. 'N' while I was tryin' to find my voice, Jasper 
 comes in out o' the cellar-way, where he'd been hidin' 'n' 
 listenin'. He twitted me with consentin'. If the knife 
 'd been in my hand at that minute, I'd a-used it I know 
 God 'ud a-let me ! But I turned 'n' run, 'n' left the two 
 men together. 
 
 " They had a orfle quar'l. I d' know what was said ; 
 I went into the farther bedroom, 'n' shet all the doors be- 
 hind me so 't I couldn't hear. 'N' when they come in to 
 supper they looked like they was ready to jump at each 
 other's throats, 'n' Goodell whispered to me when my 
 husban' couldn't hear, ' I'll be even with 'im yit !' 
 
 " That night Jasper seemed to be possessed by seven 
 devils. He raced up 'n' down the house like a crazy man, 
 'n' he ended by beatin' me till my shoulders was raw in 
 spots. I fell down acrosst a chair 'n' laid there till he 
 tired hisself out it makes me sick now to think o' that 
 dreadful time. When he'd gone I didn't seem to sense 
 nothin' fer ever so long I laid there like a weed 't 's been
 
 215 
 
 pulled up V thrown down to die. But I didn't die tbe 
 life in me wouldn't go out. When I come to, the room 
 was dark W cold, the stars was shinin' outside, V the 
 wind stirred sof ly amongst the woodbine 't covered the 
 winder. At fust I couldn't make out what had happened. 
 I laid starin' hard at the stars. Their light hurt my eyes 
 like 's if I'd rubbed ray finger acrosst my eyeballs, but I 
 stared on 'n' didn't flinch. I wanted to suffer more 
 more 'n I could bear, fer then the Lord might let me have 
 my way. 
 
 "Fin'ly I tried to git up, but couldn't. I was stiff 
 'n' lame ; when I tried to raise my arms, they growed 
 numb 'n' felt 's big 's stove-pipes ; little bubbles o' cold 
 water seemed to be risin' in long lines through all my 
 nerves. But by-'n'-by I got on to my knees 'n' prayed. 
 
 '"Lord, Lord,' I said, ' let me kill Mm let me kill 'im. 
 Don't hender me no longer. I've borne enough !' 
 
 " I fell asleep on the floor, 'n' woke up time'n'ag'in re- 
 peatin' that prayer. I laid there all night, cold 's death, 
 ceptin' where them bruises burned rny shoulders. In the 
 mornin' I got up 'n' built the fire 'n' cooked the break- 
 fas'. I didn't show I was lame 'ceptin' by stumbliu' a 
 little. 
 
 " That very day I tried to kill 'im ; I sharpened the 
 knife on the ole grindstone in the woodshed 'n' hid be- 
 hind the door, meanin' to spring out on 'im when he come 
 in. But the Lord's eye was on me; I couldn't stir, 'n' my 
 husban' went past me 'n' into the other room. That 
 night I put the knife under my pillow, sure 't I could find 
 stren'th to use it afore mornin'. But a voice was allns in 
 my ear, even while I was dreamin' ; it warned me back, 
 it took all the life from my body. When the nex' morn-
 
 216 
 
 in' come I says to myself, ' The Lord is agin me ! I won't 
 struggle no longer. But what be I stayin' 'ere to suffer 
 fer? I'll leave I'll run away, V if he brings me back, 
 things can't be wuss 'n what they be now.' 
 
 " After breakfas' I went to the stove in the fireplace 'n' 
 took out what money I reckoned I'd need. 'If I kin git 
 into the mountains, I kin hide there,' I thort. 'N' the 
 tex' come into my mind, 'I will turn mine eyes unto the 
 mountains whence cometh my help.' ' Yes,' says I, ' if I 
 kin only git to the mountains, I'll be safe he kin never 
 track me through them canons 'n' over the rocks.' I done 
 up a bundle o' clo'es 'n' laid it on the table. 'I'll go 's 
 soon 's he's safe out to the other farm,' says I. ' He won't 
 be back till one, or arter.' 'N' as I laid the bundle down 
 I noticed the knife was there, too. How it got there I d' 
 know. I couldn't 'member o' techin' it. 'N' then, afore 
 I fairly knowed it, a dreadful thing happened. 
 
 "My husban' 'n' Reuben Goodell come in. I heerd 'em 
 outside, their voices raised high in anger. Jasper come in 
 fust. He was white 's death that orfle, sickenin' white 
 't comes into faces 't mos'ly has plenty o' color. His 
 neck was gray, like a dead man's. He stumbled at the 
 threshold 'n' come near fallin'. Reuben Goodell was closst 
 behind. 
 
 " Jasper stopped, 'n' looked fust at me 'n' then at the 
 bundle. 
 
 " ' So,' says he, ' ye was gittin' yer things together to 
 leave with him, was ye ?' I 'spected he'd strike me, but he 
 didn't he was too mad to think o' it. But he called me 
 a vile name a name 't set my brain o' fire. I was look- 
 in' away from 'im when he said it I didn't know at what 
 till arterwards, but at suthin' 't held my eye. The blood
 
 217 
 
 was beatin' in my temples like it would burst through. 
 'Well, what d' ye say to it?' he yelled. 'Ye can't deny 
 it !' Then he called me that dreadful name wunst more. 
 
 " My heart gave a great leap. Still I didn't look at 'irn. 
 'N' all to wunst I seen what was holdin' my eye. It was 
 the knife ! A ray o' sunshine lay acrosst it, bright 'n' 
 cold 'n' beautiful. I seemed to stiffen 'n' grow hard. 
 ' I've borne enough,' suthin' said inside o' me. ' The 
 Lord says it I've borne enough !' Suthin' loosened 'n' 
 growed big in me ; I felt like I was flyin' out on the wind. 
 
 " ' What do I say ?' 
 
 " It was my voice a-screamin', 'n' arter a minute I reco'- 
 nized it. Then it screamed ag'in. 
 
 " ' This 'n' this !' 
 
 " My pulses was beatin' like gun-shots. I had the knife 
 in my hand I felt the handle, I seen the blade flash. I 
 dashed at 'im I thrust 'n' thrust at 'im I was blind 
 my God ! how I gloried in my freedom, my stren'th ! I 
 couldn't see 'im I didn't feel the blade touch 'im ; I 
 wouldn't a-felt it if he'd been made o' iron. Then all to 
 wunst a great whirlin' darkness seized me ; I knowed the 
 knife wa'n't in my hand 'n' then the light broke in 'n' 
 I seen 'im stretched acrosst the table with the blood oozin' 
 out at every heart-beat. 
 
 " Somehow I got away 'n' come 'ere. Afore I got to 
 Council Bluffs I can't 'member nothin' but how the tall 
 prairy grass cut my hands, 'n' how I dropped down in it 
 time 'n' ag'in to rest, more dead 'n alive. They'd been a 
 long drought, but it had rained a little the night afore, 'n' 
 the grass was all blistered with the dust. 'N' that's all I 
 know." 
 
 11 or voice died out in a low murmur. She sat leaning
 
 218 
 
 forward, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes fastened 
 upon the floor. She had told it all now and knew what 
 to expect. Would Julius's condemnation manifest itself 
 in stinging speech or only in silence ? She listened like 
 a prisoner at the bar. 
 
 The room was silent for a little space. Julius stared 
 at her, breathing hard. His face worked strangely. And 
 as he gazed his eyes became suffused and tender; he drew 
 his hand across them hastily. Then he arose, and went 
 to her and knelt down. 
 
 "My poor girl !" he murmured, in a broken voice. It 
 was all he could say just then. 
 
 Her eyes met his with a shocked surprise. 
 
 "Then ye don't hate me?" 
 
 " I love ye !" was his only answer. 
 
 Her surprised look became wistful. 
 
 " Ye didn't understan', then ? The thing I done " 
 
 "O, I do understan' better 'n ye do yerself, dear. I 
 understan' ye're a martyr in the sight o' God but there 1 
 we won't talk 'bout it no more. Why, what o' the past? 
 It's gone what's the use o' tryin' to make it present? 
 I'll make ye so happy 't ye can't help fergittin' it. Fer- 
 git it now from this minute on ; live only in yer love 
 fer me 'n' mine fer you. 'N' when the spring comes, 
 when the snow melts, V the roads is so 't we kin travel " 
 
 She interrupted him with a questioning look. 
 
 " Why, then," he went on, answering the look with a 
 loving smile, " we'll go down to Donhaly City 'n' be mar- 
 ried, 'n' live happy ever arter ! Don't say a word I won't 
 listen." He arose and kissed her, holding her hands 
 firmly and tenderly. " It's all settled nothin' 't ye could 
 say agin it 'ud make a bit o' dif'rence. 'N' so good-
 
 219 
 
 night !" He paused at the door and looked back at her. 
 " Sleep well good-night !" 
 
 As he passed through the kitchen his mother beckoned 
 him to her side. 
 
 "I heerd it all," she said, with the utmost frankness. 
 " I shoved back agin the partition a-purpose. Well ! I 
 ain't 'shamed o' it. It's the fault o' this everlastin' ole 
 house anybody kin hear through sech walls. Be yc 
 reely goin' to marry 'er arter that?" 
 
 " I reely be." 
 
 She drew a long breath, and he was in doubt as to what 
 was coming. 
 
 " I've allus said ye was pure Robinson," she declared, 
 lifting her head, and pointing her withered chin at him. 
 " But I never made shore o' it till now. Julius, I'm 
 proud o' ye ! G'long to bed !"
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THERE is little to notice in a Rocky Mountain winter 
 after the first snow-fall and the first week of fair weather. 
 Even the storms, those " friends of death," whose terrors 
 might be expected to display a reasonable admixture of 
 caprice, become all alike after experience has had a chance 
 at them wild uprisings of wind and cloud, harsh fric- 
 tions of heaven and earth, in which the snow is rubbed 
 loose and sent flying abroad like white sand. One gets 
 stamped with the oft- repeated, dazzling white days which 
 shade off imperceptibly into gray twilights and end in 
 stupendous nights of ultramarine and silver ; it is sickening 
 to watch the moon go up and down the sky night after 
 night, filling up her horn and pouring the light back upon 
 the shadow-haunted earth. There is something murderous 
 in the look of a clear day; it suggests steel and a disposi- 
 tion to use it. The wind carries a dagger and leaps bandit- 
 like upon the traveller. The peaks flash in the sun like rows 
 of upright knife-blades. But there is a monotony even in 
 threat, and one grows derisive of the actual achievements 
 of death. The same duties, perils, and discomforts at 
 morning, noon, and night; the same sense of overwrought 
 arms and legs, and vacuity where the mind ought to be. 
 After the first homesickness, there is nothing to do but 
 make a personal demonstration of the scientific truth that 
 the two main cavities of the human trunk the brain cav- 
 ity and the stomach cavity are closely connected, and
 
 221 
 
 that the latter grows at the expense of the former. While 
 this demonstration is going on one is reasonably comforta- 
 ble, but the antecedent state is a dreadful thing. Home- 
 sickness? an orgy of it. The outgrown Eastern hamlet 
 comes back with actualities softened, angles rounded. The 
 village worthies, those demigods of one's childhood, are no 
 longer alluded to with sarcasm as great only by the little- 
 ness of the average villager. One remembers them ten- 
 derly in the poetic generalization that home-keeping hearts 
 are they that rule the world. And the belated Browning 
 Society " Daughters of Browning," the parson's wife 
 had christened it the church socials, the lawn festivals, 
 all the mild dissipations regulated by a religious commu- 
 nity as a safe compromise between an impossible heavenly 
 innocence and an irrepressible state of youthful frivolity, 
 play queer pranks with one's heart-strings in the remem- 
 brance. Yes, homesick. What of it? The gods them- 
 selves had their favorite spots of earth. And the sweet 
 blond girl, with the waxen complexion and heart ditto 
 for its impressibility the one whose wedding-cards came 
 crashing into one's consciousness like a cannonade But 
 stop ! that way madness lies. 
 
 The genius who, for five months at a stretch, can take 
 pleasure in staring at Nature frozen up and laid out in 
 white under a blue tent is a mental voluptuary, who can 
 lay claim to something more broadly symbolic than the 
 olive wreath of specific success ; he should bear the palm- 
 branch of universal triumph. Men long since out of their 
 mental swaddling-clothes presenting to their own inner 
 eye a tangled luxuriance of thick-growing thoughts, com- 
 pared with which Shakespeare's intellectual achievements 
 are a mere weedy common have emerged from a Colo-
 
 222 
 
 rado winter as barren of ideas as if they had never sinned. 
 The splendid monotony of the mountains becomes un- 
 bearable. One longs for a splash of color on the foot- 
 hills, in the sunset, in one's own life. But the days drop 
 out, one after another, as alike as peas from the pod. 
 Nature takes to lines and angles; she neglects form, color, 
 shadow ; she attempts nothing that cannot be dashed off 
 in charcoal. The snow banks up the four horizons to the 
 very walls of heaven, sending upward a flash which reveals 
 nothing of the sky's deep mystery. The silence drowns 
 one; it is a submerging sea, breaking all around in great 
 billows. Impossible to get an echo ; the rocks are padded, 
 and absorb sound like feather cushions ; the silence seizes 
 the voice in the throat and stifles it. The lowing of the 
 cattle might be a rumbling of diseased auditory nerves. 
 Material things which in summer were all in all, fade into 
 groups of pale images which go wandering aimlessly down 
 the path of memory. The world loses its hold ; the mind 
 is not on speaking terms with facts. It retires inward, 
 and, finding nothing, rattles about in the place where its 
 thoughts used to be. 
 
 "Time hath a quiver full of purposes 
 That miss not of their aim," 
 
 says Lowell. And the aims are always kindly, though va- 
 rious as human needs and desires. A little trust while the 
 arrow is on the wing, a little effort to keep in its way, and 
 the present necessity shall be hope's future precedent and 
 sanction, and " that which was ecstasy shall become daily 
 bread." 
 
 The winter months wrought important changes in the
 
 condition of affairs on Cloud Mountain. First and fore- 
 most, Emma Webster consented to become Julius's wife. 
 At first she would not listen when he talked of marriage. 
 In her actual observation she had seen something of the 
 results of ill - considered love - matches, and hearsav had 
 made reliable additions to her stock of knowledge. Her 
 love contained too little of impulse to permit her to lose 
 the effect of all the wise lessons of the past. She was 
 convinced that Julius would hate her when the first gla- 
 mour was over, and he woke up to the real meaning of 
 being bound for life to a criminal. It was useless for him 
 to reverse the case, and show what she would do were he 
 the guilty one and she innocent. She would not listen ; 
 she had strength enough to save him from himself, and 
 she would do it. 
 
 And yet, in time, Julius triumphed. The man himself, 
 and not his arguments, was the cause of this. The close 
 companionship of the long winter months brought into 
 clearer vision many points in his character of whose qual- 
 ity she had previously been in doubt. As she realized 
 more and more the fundamental strength of his nature, 
 the stability of his purposes, the generosity of his judg- 
 ments, his love took on the aspect of an obligation from 
 which she could not escape. She no longer feared the 
 stern reprobation of his regret. He would never repent of 
 his union with her that fact was as clear as if she had 
 already lived her life through in proof of it. His persist- 
 ence was something more than the restlessness of passion ; 
 it was the urgency of a supreme, all-abiding love, demand- 
 ing consideration and fulfilment as a right, and promising 
 the large return of perfect loyalty. Should she hold out 
 against him, what then ? One might attain to the glory
 
 224 
 
 of self-sacrifice where two might be happy a distinction 
 happily won, maybe, but more happily lost. It became 
 plain that this sacrifice was neither necessary nor reason- 
 able. No word of reproach would ever escape his lips for 
 the deed she had done. Her own conscience would al- 
 ways deal more roughly with her than he. She could 
 trust him utterly. The assurance came to her slowly but 
 completely. The dull doubts which had clung to her like 
 burrs dropped off, and she moved with the freedom of ab- 
 solute trust. Her vain questionings gave place to rever- 
 ence and joy, and his claim to her love and service became 
 as obvious as a crown. 
 
 " I'll marry ye, Julius," she consented at last. Her face 
 was serious and glad. " Because I love ye," she added, 
 "V I know we'll be better V happier together." 
 
 And from that day she had no regrets. She had set- 
 tled the matter sanely, the dupe neither of Julius's love nor 
 her own supersensitiveness. She had decided neither as 
 romanticist nor fatalist, but as a healthy human being ex- 
 ercising the power of common-sense. 
 
 " Reuben Goodell '11 let that quar'l drop," she told her- 
 self, " 'n' Julius, too he's promised me. Reuben's had 
 all the winter to think it over he'll let it drop." 
 
 The winter passed, and it was earliest spring. The snow 
 was melting; there was renewal and revival in the chill, 
 light air. Abiathar came over as soon as the road would 
 permit. He was healthy and happy, and reported the 
 family at Barb Wire Ranch as " s'lubrious." 
 
 " 'N' how d' ye git along with Cynthy 1" questioned his 
 mother, descending sharply to details. 
 
 Abiathar cocked his eye at her. 
 
 " Mother," he said, flinging his whole body forward
 
 with a movement of expansive enthusiasm, " Cynthy's 
 well, say, Cynthy's jes' great /" 
 
 " Oh, I knowed that," was the ambiguous retort. 
 
 He had much to tell of a broncho he had just been 
 breaking, and of his newly acquired skill at " ropin' 'em 
 in" almost equal to Julius's. In the midst of this out- 
 pouring a shadow moved across the window, and every- 
 body turned at the dull sound of horse's hoofs on the 
 snow outside. Emma Webster saw a man dismounting 
 and fastening his horse to the wood-pile. An awful fear 
 struck into her. 
 
 " Who is it ?" questioned the old woman. 
 
 " I can't make shore, but it looks like Tom Taylor." 
 
 Before they could get to the door and open it a man's 
 voice called out : 
 
 " Hello in there ! Anybody to home ?" 
 
 " Lots o' us !" was Mr. Irish's cheerful answer. 
 
 The voice was not Tom Taylor's, thank God ! 
 
 Mr. Irish brought in the stranger, and introduced him 
 as Amos Bradshaw from Baumgardener's. Emma Web- 
 ster had never heard of the man before. 
 
 Mr. Irish would have been delighted to meet his dear- 
 est foe in heaven after the lonely winter through which 
 he had passed. 
 
 " Well, how's everything ?" he cried, with a geniality 
 almost Southern in its effusiveness. "Roads was purty 
 tough, wa'n't they ? How 'd ye manage to git through 
 Butler's Gulch V lower down where the bridges is gone?" 
 
 " Swum where I couldn't wade. I'd trust Ginger to 
 take me to McGinty if swimmin' 'ud do it. Ye 'member 
 Ginger ?" 
 
 " I should ruther say ! I sold 'im to Baumgardener
 
 myself three year ago last oat harvest. Baumgardeners 
 all alive ?" 
 
 A strange look came into Bradshaw's face. 
 
 " Yes Baumgardeners is all alive." 
 
 " Then who's dead ?" 
 
 " I didn't say nobody was, did I ?" 
 
 " No, but ye looked it." 
 
 " Looks is powerful deceiving pardner, powerful deceiv- 
 in'. But that ain't what I come to say. It's 'bout a man 
 ye know Tom Taylor." 
 
 Emma's heart stopped beating. Julius's eyes met hers, 
 then passed on to the stranger. 
 
 " So he sent you to see me ?" he asked, quietly. 
 
 " No. He's dead." 
 
 There was silence in the little room. 
 
 "Dead!" Old Mrs. Irish drew a long breath and sat 
 bolt- upright. 
 
 " Fer the love o' Moses !" put in Abiathar, " what '11 
 Cynthy say ? When ? How ?" 
 
 Bradshaw regarded them all with the smile of advan- 
 tage which is inseparable from a man who has something 
 important to tell. 
 
 " It was three weeks arter he struck the place, las' fall. 
 He was out 'in a storm up Shiverin' Mesa Baumgar- 
 dener sent 'im fer a couple o' steers 't had strayed off tor- 
 rards the south. Shiverin' Mesa ain't fur, but it might 
 's well be a hundred mile if a man's ketched up there in a 
 snow-storm 'n' don't know the lan'marks. Well, arter 
 the storm come up, we was 'feerd he might lose 'is way, 
 him bein' a stranger in them parts, so Tim Foster 'n' me, 
 we sot out to find 'im. Well, we did find 'im under a 
 ledge o' rock jest above the Devil's Heel. He was layin'
 
 there with 'is blanket round 'ira. His boss was tied to a 
 pinon, chilled through. We got hira V the boss home 
 a tough job, too, I kin tell ye, with the snow fallin' till 
 we couldn't see three feet ahead o' us 'n' fer a long time 
 we made shore the man was dead. I dunno how many 
 hours we worked over 'im. It 'ud make ye sick if I was 
 to tell ye wbat happened to his ears 'n' nose when they 
 thawed out. But fin'ly he did come to, though he was 
 the wuss froze-up critter I ever sot eyes on, 'n' I've seen 
 some tough cases, too. 
 
 "Well, we all knowed he'd got to die, 'n' so M he. He 
 could speak a little, but he couldn't see nor turn 'is head. 
 Bymeby he ast me p'in't-blank if his time 'd come to go 
 over ; 'n' I tole 'im the truth, jes 's straight 's he ast fer 
 it. If I'd been in 'is place I'd a-\vanted it jes' so. A man 
 couldn't do wuss by me 'n' I've allus said it 'n' to let 
 me wink out all to wunst, yanked into the nex' world 
 afore I had a chance to let go my grip on this. 
 
 " Arter I tole 'im, he laid still fer a little while. I 
 reckoned he'd gone to sleep; but purty soon I seen 'im 
 tryin' to speak, 'n' I bent over to ketch the words. 
 
 " ' Git a pen 'n' ink 'n' paper,' says he. 
 
 " I got 'em 'n' sot down by the bed, clost up, fer I seen 
 'twas suthin' purty ser'ous. I had to listen sharp fer 
 what he said, but I got it, word fer word. They was five 
 witnesses in the house, 'n' we all signed that paper. Here 
 'tis I reckon it b'longo to yow," he said, handing it to 
 Emma. " He made 'is own mark there, see it? I held 
 the pen in 'is hand 'n' guided it I felt like I was holdin' 
 the fingers on at the same time. He died that night. I 
 dunno 's the Lord '11 fergive the critter 'n' make a pet o 
 'im in glory I don't reckon He will, mos' likely but I
 
 228 
 
 know / couldn't hold out agin 'im when I heerd 'im keep 
 sayin' over V over to hisself, ' Lord, Lord, have mercy on 
 my soul !' " 
 
 Julius and Emma stood by the window and read the 
 paper together. It was a confession of the murder of 
 one Jasper Madden, on a specified day of the preceding 
 June, by Reuben Goodell, otherwise known as Tom Tay- 
 lor, who had been incited thereto by circumstances which 
 it was unnecessary to detail. The deed had been com- 
 mitted under conditions which had caused the wife of the 
 said Jasper Madden to appear guilty, even in her own 
 eyes. She had the knife in her hand and was trying to 
 strike ; but he (Reuben Goodell), seeing that she was com- 
 pletely unconscious of her own actions, that she tottered and 
 was about to fall, seized the knife, and delivered the blow 
 himself. The wife regained consciousness after a moment, 
 and believing herself to be the criminal in which decep- 
 tion he encouraged her fled the country, and was now 
 living at Cloud Mountain Ranch under the name of Emma 
 Webster. This confession was made in the hope of right- 
 ing a great wrong, and also of placing his own soul on a 
 better footing in the life to come. 
 
 Emma Webster finished reading and looked at Julius 
 with a white, glorified face. Neither spoke. It was as if 
 they had both been brought, in one supreme moment, 
 into direct contact with the infinite goodness of God. 
 
 On one of those spring mornings when the deep, rest- 
 ful sleep of things during the night awakens them early 
 to new energies of growth, and when men, in spite of 
 fheniselves, become poets and fall a-dreaming of hopes as 
 yet unborn in their own souls, a wagon, containing a man
 
 229 
 
 and a woman, clattered along the road leading from Cloud 
 Mountain to Donhala City. To the physical eye the 
 wagon was drawn by two sturdy mountain horses, but 
 one gifted with an inward vision would have seen that it 
 was hitched to a star in the precise Emersonian sense, and 
 moved in obedience to that Power which animates the 
 world through the needs and aspirations of men. For 
 no closer connection ever existed between heaven and 
 earth than in the bond of an honest human love ; and this 
 man and woman, on the way to their own wedding, un- 
 consciously exemplified that unity of good throughout 
 the universe whereby the guess of the Sophists becomes 
 a fact, and man is recognized as the measure of all things 
 even of the Infinite. 
 
 " I b'lieve in God now," old Mrs. Irish had confessed, 
 with her apron to her eyes, as she watched the wagon 
 disappear down the road. " In Emmy's God," she added, 
 as if formulating her faith for the future. 
 
 Her husband lighted his pipe and sat down by the fire- 
 place for a quiet smoke. 
 
 " We'll allus have her biscuits now," he said, more to 
 himself than to her. He, too, had his idea of the creative 
 goodness, and this was his expression of it. 
 
 Julius drove slowly. Why not? He possessed that 
 blessed leisure which hopeful people always have. There 
 was something supremely triumphant in this journey with 
 Emma beside him 
 
 "The breath 
 Of her sweet tendence hovering over him." 
 
 He had reached the summit of his earthly ambition. The 
 world was under his tutelage, the future waited in kindly 
 submission for his commands.
 
 "God made the day a- purpose fer us, Julius." Era- 
 ma's eyes rested upon his with a quiet joy. " I knowed 
 how it 'ud be I ast Him." 
 
 " Ye ast Him ?" 
 
 " Yes to tell me the day I orter set for my wedd'in'. 
 I looked in the Bible, 'n' He tole me there. Oh, I know," 
 she added, with gentle haste " I know ye think I ortn't 
 to put no more faith in that sorter thing arter the leadin' I 
 made shore I had the night when I found Reuben Goodell 
 in the cabin. But it was a leadin', Julius. I've thort it 
 all out sence then. If I hadn't follered what it tole me, 
 Reuben Goodell wouldn't a -gone to Baumgardener's, 'n' 
 then we'd never a-knowed the truth about that crime. 'N' 
 then " 
 
 " 'N' then we couldn't a-been quite happy, nohow, could 
 we ?" finished Julius. 
 
 They were both serious, but smiling. Julius put his 
 arm around her in silence. In her faith, as in all things, 
 she was infinitely beyond him ; and he was content to 
 have it so.
 
 BY GEORGE DU MAURIER 
 
 TRILBY. A Novel. Illustrated by the Author. Post 
 
 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental. 
 
 It is a charming story told with exquisite grace and tenderness. 
 A". Y. Tribune. 
 
 " Trilby " is the best fiction of the older school that the magazines 
 have permitted the public to enjoy for a long while. N. Y.Evening Post. 
 
 Proves Du Maurier to have as great power as George Meredith in 
 describing the anomalies and romances of modern English life; while 
 his style is far more clear and simple, and his gift of illustration adds 
 what few authors can afford. Thackeray had this artistic skill in some 
 degree, but not to compare with Du Maurier. Springfield Republican, 
 
 "Trilby "is so thoroughly human, so free from morbidness and 
 the disposition to touch the unclean thing that it atones for a multi- 
 tude of sins in contemporaneous fiction. ... In giving this wholesome, 
 fascinating history to the world the artist-author has done a favor to 
 novel readers which they cannot well repay nor fitly express. Indian- 
 apolis Journal. 
 
 PETER IBBETSON. With an Introduction by hia 
 Cousin, Lady *****(" Madge Pluuket ") Edited 
 and illustrated by GEORGE DU MAUIUER. Post 8vo, 
 Cloth, Ornamental, $1 50. 
 
 Mr. Du Maurier deserves the gratitude of all who come across his 
 book, both for the pleasant and tender fancies in which it abounds 
 and for its fourscore dainty sketches Athenceum, London. 
 
 There are no suggestions of mediocrity. The pathos is true, the 
 irony delicate, the satire severe when its subject is unworthy, the com- 
 edy sparkling, and the tragedy, as we have said, inevitable. One or 
 two more such books, and the fame of the artist would be dim beside 
 that of the novelist iV. Y. Evening Post. 
 
 The personal characterization is particularly strong, the pictures 
 of Paris are wonderfully graphic, and the tale will induce many of its 
 readers to attempt Du Maurier's receipt for "dreaming true." Phil- 
 adelphia Ledger. 
 
 Novelty of subject and of treatment, literary interest, pictorial 
 skill the reader must be fastidious whom none of these can allure 
 Chicago Tribune. 
 
 PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. 
 
 J9 TJie above works are for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent by 
 the publishers, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, Canada, or 
 Mexico, on receipt of price.
 
 BY EICHAED HAKDING DAVIS 
 
 THE EXILES, AND OTHER STORIES. Illustrated. 
 Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 50. 
 
 These varying but uniformly characteristic tales show the travelled 
 man, they show the observing man, and they show the natural and 
 well-trained story-teller; but the principal value of them lies not so 
 much in any of these things as in the evidence the stories bear to a 
 thoughtful mind, alert for impressions, but never content to receive 
 impressions without trying to analyze causes. Interior, Chicago. 
 
 OUR ENGLISH COUSINS. Illustrated. Post Svo, 
 Cloth, Ornamental, $1 25. 
 
 Admirable examples of genuine observation recorded with the light 
 find quick, yet firm, clear touch of a literary artist in whom the good- 
 humor and the enthusiasm of healthy American, youth are still un- 
 dimmed. Philadelphia Times. 
 
 THE RULERS OF THE MEDITERRANEAN. Illus- 
 trated. Post Svo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 25. 
 
 A very clever and entertaining book of travels. . . . Mr. Davis has 
 combined history, geography, and romance in such a way as to leave 
 no dull or stupid line or passage iu his book. San Francisco Chronicle. 
 
 THE WEST FROM A CAR-WINDOW. Illustrated by 
 FREDERIC REMINGTON. Post Svo, Cloth, Ornamental, 
 $1 25. 
 
 There is not a dull line iu the book, and the United States soldier, 
 commissioned and enlisted, and the American Indian alike, have cause 
 to be grateful for the fate that drew them into the line of vision of such 
 a delineator. His occasional chapters give a truer view of both classes 
 than half a dozen "military" romances. Sation, N. Y. 
 
 VAN BIBBER, AND OTHERS. Illustrated. Post Svo, 
 Cloth, Ornamental, $1 00. 
 
 Mr. Davis is one of a considerable group of Americans who throw 
 off short stories so full of life and significance that they often seem to 
 tell us more of the social conditions they describe, within ten or twelve 
 pages, than our own novelists can compress into a volume. Spectator^ 
 London. 
 
 PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. 
 
 t^~ The above works are for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent by the 
 publishers, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, Can- 
 ada, or Mexico, on receipt of the price.
 
 K. D. BLACKMOKE'S NOVELS. 
 
 PERLYCROSS. A Novel. 12mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 75. 
 
 Told with delicate and delightful art Its pictures of rural Eng- 
 lish scenes and diameters will woo and solace the reader. ... It is 
 charming company in charming surroundings. Its pathos, its humor, 
 and its array of natural incidents are all satisfying. One must feel 
 thankful for so fluished and exquisite a story. . . . Not often do we 
 find a more impressive piece of work. N. Y. Sun. 
 
 A new novel from the pen of R. D. Blackmore is as great a treat to 
 the fastidious and discriminating novel-reader as a new and rare dish 
 is to an epicure. . . . A story to be lingered over with delight. Boston 
 Beacon. 
 
 SPRINGHAVEN. Illustrated, 12mo, Cloth, $1 50; 4to, 
 
 Paper, 25 cents. 
 LORNA DOONE. Illustrated. 12mo, Cloth, $1 00 ; 8vo, 
 
 Paper, 40 cents. 
 
 KIT AND KITTY. 12mo, Cloth, $1 25 ; Paper, 35 cents. 
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 EREMA ; OR, MY FATHER'S SIN. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents. 
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 TOMMY UPMORE. IGmo, Cloth, 50 cents ; Paper, 35 
 
 cents; 4 to, Paper, 20 cents. 
 
 His descriptions are wonderfully vivid and natural. His pages 
 are brightened everywhere with great humor ; the quaint, dry turns of 
 thought remind you occasionally of Fielding. London Times. 
 
 His tales, all of them, are pre-eminently meritorious. They are 
 remarkable for their careful elaboration, the conscientious finish of 
 their workmanship, their affluence of striking dramatic and narrative 
 incident, their close observation and general interpretation of nature, 
 their profusion of picturesque description, and their quiet and sus- 
 tained humor. Christian Intelligencer, N. Y. 
 
 PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. 
 
 fS~ The above works are for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent by 
 the publishers, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, Can- 
 
 ada, or Mexico, on receipt of the price.
 
 BY CONSTANCE F. WOOLSON. 
 
 HORACE CHASE. 16mo, Cloth, $1 25. 
 JUPITER LIGHTS. 16mo, Cloth, $1 25, 
 EAST ANGELS. 16mo, Cloth, $1 25. 
 ANNE. Illustrated. 16mo, Cloth, $1 25. 
 FOR THE MAJOR. 16mo, Cloth, $1 00. 
 CASTLE NOWHERE. 16mo, Cloth, $1 00. 
 RODMAN THE KEEPER. 16mo, Cloth, $1 00. 
 
 There is a certain bright cheerfulness in Miss Woolson's writing 
 which invests all her characters with lovable qualities. Jewish Advo- 
 cate, N. Y. 
 
 Miss Woolson is among our few successful writers of interesting 
 magazine stories, and her skill and power are perceptible in the de- 
 lineation of her heroines uo less than in the suggestive pictures of 
 local life. Jewish Messenger, N. Y. 
 
 Constance Fenimore Woolsou may easily become the novelist lau- 
 reate. Boston Globe. 
 
 Miss Woolson has a graceful fancy, a ready wit, a polished style, 
 and conspicuous dramatic power; while her skill in the development 
 of a story is very remarkable. London Life. 
 
 Miss Woolson never once follows the beaten track of the orthodox 
 novelist, but strikes a new and richly-loaded vein which, so far, is all 
 her own ; and thus we feel, on reading one of her works, a fresh sen- 
 sation, and we put down the book with a sigh to think onr pleasant 
 task of reading it is finished. The author's lines must have fallen to 
 her in very pleasant places; or she has, perhaps, within herself the 
 wealth of womanly love and tenderness she pours so freely into all 
 she writes. Such books as hers do much to elevate the moral tone of 
 the day a quality sadly wanting in novels of the time. Whitehall 
 Review, London. 
 
 PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. 
 
 above marks are for sale by all booksellers, or will be xcnt b;t 
 the publishers, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, 
 Canada, or Mexico, on receipt of the price.
 
 BY MAKY E. WILKINS. 
 
 PEMBROKE. A Novel. Illustrated. 16mo, Cloth, 
 Ornamental, $1 50. 
 
 JANE FIELD. A Novel. Illustrated. 16rao, Cloth, 
 
 Ornamental, $1 25. 
 YOUNG LUCRETIA, and Other Stories. Illustrated. 
 
 Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 25. 
 A NEW ENGLAND NUN, and Other Stories. 16mo, 
 
 Cloth, Ornamental, $1 25. 
 A HUMBLE ROMANCE, and Other Stories. 16mo, 
 
 Cloth, Ornamental, $1 25. 
 GILES COREY, YEOMAN. Illustrated. 32mo, Cloth, 
 
 Ornamental, 50 cents. 
 
 We have long admired Miss Wilkins as one of the most pow- 
 erful, original, and profound writers of America ; but we are 
 bound to say that "Pembroke" is entitled to a higher distinc- 
 tion than the critics have awarded to Miss Wilkins's earlier 
 productions. As a picture of New England life and character, 
 as a story of such surpassing interest that he who begins is 
 compelled to finish it, as a work of art without a fault or a de- 
 ficiency, we cannot see how it could possibly be improved. N. 
 Y. Sun. 
 
 The simplicity, purity, and quaintness of these stories set 
 them apart in a niche of distinction where they have no rivals. 
 Literary World, Boston. 
 
 Nowhere are there to be found such faithful, delicately drawn, 
 sympathetic, tenderly humorous pictures. N. Y. Tribune. 
 
 The charm of Miss Wilkins's stories is in her intimate ac- 
 quaintance and comprehension of humble life, and the sweet 
 human interest she feels and makes her readers partake of, in 
 the simple, common, homely people she draws. Springfield 
 Republican. 
 
 PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. 
 
 4" The above works are for sale ly all booksellers, or will be sent by 
 Hi,- finlilishers, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, Canada, or 
 Mexico, on receipt of the price.
 
 BY WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS. 
 
 A TRAVELER FROM ALTRURIA. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 
 THE COAST OF BOHEMIA. Illustrated. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 
 THE WORLD OF CHANCE. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50; Paper, 
 
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 THE QUALITY OF MERCY. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50; Paper, 
 
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 AN IMPERATIVE DUTY. 12mo, Cloth, $1 00; Paper, 50 
 
 cents. 
 
 A HAZARD OF NEW FORTUNES. Two Volumes. 12mo, 
 Cloth, $2 00; Illustrated, 12mo, Paper, $1 00. 
 
 THE SHADOW OF A DREAM. 12mo, Cloth, $1 00; Paper, 
 
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 ANNIE KILBURN. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50 ; Paper, 75 cents. 
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 CHRISTMAS EVERY DAY, AND OTHER STORIES. Illustrated. 
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 A BOY'S TOWN. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, $1 25. 
 CRITICISM AND FICTION. With Portrait. 16mo, Cloth, 
 
 $1 00. 
 MODERN ITALIAN POETS. With Portraits. 12mo, Half 
 
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 THE MOUSE-TRAP, AND OTHER FARCES. Illustrated. 12mo, 
 Cloth, $1 00. 
 
 FARCES: A LIKELY STORY THE MOUSE-TRAP FIVE O'CLOCK 
 TEA EVENING DRESS THE UNEXPECTED GUESTS A LETTER 
 OF INTRODUCTION THE ALBANY DEPOT THE GARROTERS. 
 Illustrated. 32mo, Cloth, 50 cents each. 
 
 A LITTLE SWISS SOJOURN. HIM. 32mo, Cloth, 50 cents. 
 MY YEAR IN A LOG CABIN. Ill'd. 32mo, Cloth, 50 cents. 
 
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 or Mexico, on receipt of the price.
 
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