truth in her heart about that place, and the acknowledgment of it, which
she had kept away from her up to that hour. It wasn't worth while; she
did not care for it. Then and there she was ready to give it up and
leave it to whoever might come after her and shape its roughness into a
home.

There was a heaviness upon her, and a weight of sadness such as comes
out of the silent places of the night. It was such a wide and empty land
for a young heart, and its prospect was such a waste of years! The
thought of refuge and peace was sweet, but there is refuge to be found
and peace to be won among men and the works of men; among books, and the
softer ways of life.

At that hour she was ready to give it up, mount her horse, and ride
away. If giving it up would save Dr. Slavens his hard-won claim, she
would not hesitate, she told herself, to ride to Comanche that night and
take the first train for the East. But flight would not put her out of
the reach of the Federal officials, and if she should fly, that would
only bring the spite of Boyle down upon her more swiftly and sharply
than remaining there, facing him, and defying him to do his worst.

No; flight would be useless, because Jerry Boyle knew exactly where she
would go. There was but one place; they would follow her to it and find
her, and that would be carrying trouble to a home that had enough of it
as it stood. There must be some other way. Was there no bond of
tenderness in that dark man's life which she could touch? no soft
influence which she might bring to bear upon him and cause him to
release his rapacious hold?

None. So far as she could fit the pieces of the past together she could
fashion no design which offered relief.

Agnes brought up her horse and gave it a measure of oats near the tent
for the sake of the companionship of its noise, and large presence in
the lantern light. She thought that even after she had gone to sleep
there would be comfort in the sense of the animal's nearness.

And so, beside her stove, the lonely night around her, the dread ache of
"the lonesomeness" in her heart, she sat watching the sparks run out of
the stovepipe like grains of sand running in a glass. Distance and hope
alike have their enchantments, she owned, which all the powers of reason
cannot dispel. Hand to hand this land was not for her. It was empty of
all that she yearned for; it was as crude as the beginning.

And out of the turmoil of this thought and heartach