his
young wife Bertha, down from the mountain for the first time since his
illness, and those who knew their story and recognized them, stood aside
with a thrill of pity for the man and a look of admiration for the girl,
whose bravery and devotion had done so much to bring her husband back to
life and to a growing measure of his former strength.

Marshall Haney was, indeed, but a poor hulk of his stalwart self. One
lung had been deeply torn, his left shoulder was almost wholly disabled,
and he walked with a stoop and shuffle; but his physical weakening was
not more marked than his mental mellowing. He was softened--"gentled,"
as the horsemen say. His eyes were larger, and his face, once so stern
and masterful, gave out an appealing expression by reason of the deep
horizontal wrinkles which had developed in his brow. He had grown a
mustache, and this being gray gave him an older look--older and more
military. It was plain, also, that he leaned upon his keen-eyed,
impassive little wife, who never for one moment lost her hold upon
herself or her surroundings. Her flashing glances took note of
everything about her, and her lips were close-set and firm.

Williams, ugly and wordless as ever, followed them with a proud smile
till they entered the handsome suite of rooms which had been reserved
for them. "There's nothing too good for Marshall Haney and his
side-partner," he exulted to the bell-boy.

Thereupon, Mart, with a look of reverence at his young bride, replied:
"She's airned it--and more!"

A sigh was in his voice and a singular appeal in his big eyes as he sank
into an easy-chair. "I believe I do feel better down here; my heart
seems to work aisier. I'm going to get well now, darlin'."

"Of course you are," she answered, in the tone of a daughter; then
added, with a smile: "I like it here. Why not settle?"

To her Colorado Springs was a dazzling social centre. The beauty of the
homes along its wide streets, the splendor of its private carriages,
affected her almost as deeply as the magnitude and glory of Denver
itself; but she was not of those who display their weaknesses and
diffidence. She ate her first dinner in the lofty Antlers dining-hall
with quiet dignity, and would not have been particularly noticed but for
Haney, who was well-known to the waiters of the hotel. Her association
with him had made her a marked figure in their mountain towns, and she
was accustomed to comment.

She met the men who address