t
here I quit what you fellows call civilization. I hate to lose you and
Julia and the rest of the folks, but it's me to the high hills. You'll
never know how much you've helped me."

"I hope you'll never know how thoroughly we've _done_ you. An
evil-minded person would say we'd worked you for dinners and drives most
shameful. However, if you have enjoyed our company as thoroughly as
we've delighted in your champagne and birds, we'll cry quits. All my
theories of art and life I advance _gratis_. I ought to do something
handsome for you--you've listened so divinely."

Underneath his banter Moss was sincerely moved. It was hard to say
good-bye to this curious, earnest, seeking mind, this unspoiled child in
whose face the world was being reflected as in a magical mirror. He
loved her with frank affection--a pure passion that was more intimate
than fraternal love and more exalted, in a sense, than the selfish,
devouring passion of the suitor. It would have been difficult for him to
say what his relationship to her at the moment was. It was more than
friendship, more than brotherly care, and yet it was definably less than
that of the lover.

Julia came in and was quite as outspoken in her regret, and both refused
to say good-bye at the moment. "We'll see you at the station," they
said, and Bertha went away, feeling the pain of parting less keen by
reason of this promise.

Afterwards, as the hour for departure came near, she hoped they would
not come. It was less difficult to say "I'll see you again" than to
utter the curt "good-bye" which means so much in Anglo-Saxon life.

They came, however, together with several others of her friends, but in
the bustle and confusion of the depot not much of sentiment could be
uttered, and, though she felt that she was going for a long stay, she
was prodigal of promises to return soon.

Patrick Haney was there, but refused to go with them. "Sure I'm at the
jumpin'-off place now, and to immigrate furder would be to put meself in
the hands of the murtherin' redskins." His talk was the touch of comedy
which the situation needed. "Av ye don't mind I'll stay wid Fan," he
said, a little more seriously, to Haney, who replied:

"All right, 'tis as Fan says," and so they entered the train for the
upward climb.

Haney himself had only joy of the return. He sat at one of the windows
of the library car and studied the prairie swells with a faint, musing
smile, till the darkness fell, and was