on life. And whatever way you put it,
whatever the future brings, we're better for what happened tonight."

Pan strode off in the starlight, across the orchard, down along the
murmuring stream to the cottonwood tree with the bench.

It was useless for him to try to sleep. To and fro he paced in the
starlight. Alone now, with the urgent activities past for the time, he
reverted to the grim and hateful introspection that had haunted his
mind.

This once, however, the sinister strife in his soul, that strange icy
clutch on his senses--the aftermath of instinctive horror following the
death of a man by his hand--wore away before the mounting of a passion
that had only waited.

It did not leap upon him unawares, like an enemy out of ambush. It
grew as he walked, as his whirling thoughts straightened in a single
line to--Lucy. She had betrayed him. She had broken his heart. What
if she had thought him dead--sacrificed herself to save her
father?--She had given herself to that dog Hardman. The thought was
insupportable. "I hate her," he whispered. "She's made me hate her."

The hours passed, the stars moved across the heavens, the night wind
ceased, the crickets grew silent, and the murmuring stream flowed on at
Pan's feet. Spent and beaten he sat upon the bench. His love for Lucy
had not been killed. It lived, it had grown, it was tremendous--and
both pity and reason clamored that he be above jealousy and hate.
After all there was excuse for Lucy. She was young, she had been
driven by grief over his supposed death and fear for her father. But
oh! The pity of it--of this hard truth against the sweetness and
purity of his dream! Life and love were not what he had dreamed them
as he had ridden the lonely ranges. He must suffer because he had left
Lucy to fight her battles.

"I'll try to forget," he whispered huskily. "I've got to. But not
yet. I can't do it yet.... We'll leave this country far behind. And
some day we can go on with--with all we planned."

Pan went back to the barn and threw himself upon the hay, where
exhausted brain and body sank to sleep and rest. It seemed that a
voice and a rude hand tore away the sweet oblivion.

"Pard, are you daid?" came Blinky's voice, keen and full with newer
note. "Sunup an' time to rustle. Your dad's heah an' he says
breakfast is waitin'."

Pan rose and stretched. His muscles ached as though he had been
beaten. How bright the sun! Night was