on the Sage Brush. Might
not your good judgment take you back, in spite of a little pride and the
newness of a different life here?"

As York spoke, Jerry Swaim sat looking earnestly into his face, but when
he had finished she said, lightly:

"I thought before I saw you that you were an old man. You seem more like
a brother now. I never had a brother, nor a sister--nothing but myself,
which makes too big a houseful anywhere." She grew serious again as she
continued: "I do understand what I'm giving up. It was tabulated in a
letter to me yesterday, and I do not give up lightly nor for a girl's
whim now. I have my time extended. There seems to be indefinite patience
at the other end of the line, if I'll only be sure to agree at last."

"Pardon me, Jerry, if I ask you if it is a question of mere funds." York
spoke carefully. "I know that Mrs. Darby may be drawn on at any time for
that purpose."

"Did she tell you so?" Jerry asked, bluntly.

"She did--when you first came here," York replied, as bluntly.

Jerry did not dream of the struggle that was on in the mind of the man
before her, but her own strife had made her more thoughtful.

For a little while neither spoke. Then York Macpherson's face cleared,
as one who has reached the top of a difficult height and sees all the
open country on the other side. Jerusha Darby's plea had won.

"Jerry, you do not understand what is before you. Whoever takes up the
business of self-support, depending solely on the earnings that must be
won, has a sure battle with uncertainty, failure, sacrifice, and
slow-wearing labor. Of course it is a glorious old warfare--but it has
that other side. In the face of the fact that I am your fortunate host,
and that my sister is happier now than she has ever been before in New
Eden, and hopes to keep you here, I urge you, Jerry, to consider well
before you refuse to go back to your father's sister and your artist
cousin."

The "father's sister" was a master-stroke. It caught Jerry at an angle
she had not expected. But that "artist cousin"! If Gene had been truly
the artist, Jerry Swaim had yielded then. The failure to be true to
oneself has long tentacles that reach far and grip back many things that
else had come in blessing to him who lies to his own soul.

"I won't go back. That is settled. Now as to my last will and testament,
please," Jerry said, prettily.

"Imprimis," York began, with his pen on the lease form before him.

"Oh, dro