not see them, did not give a
thought to their meaning.

He was thinking poignantly of Mary Hope, fighting the vivid impression
which a dream last night had left with him. In his dream Mary Hope had
stood at her door, with her hands held out to him beseechingly, and
called and called: "Lance! Oh, Lance! I dinna hate you because you're
a Lorrigan--Oh, _Lance!_"

It had been a curious dream from start to finish. Curious because, in
various forms, this was the third time he had seen her stand with
hands outstretched, calling to him. He did not believe in dreams. He
had neither patience for presentiments nor faith in anything that
bordered on the occult.

It had been against much inner protest that he had ridden to the
schoolhouse in obedience to the persistent idea that she needed him.
That he had not found her there seemed to him conclusive proof that
there was nothing in telepathy. The dreams, he felt sure, were merely
a continuation of that persistent idea--and the persistent idea, he
was beginning to believe, was but a perverse twist given to his own
longing for her.

"--And I can't go to her--not yet. Not while the Lorrigan name--" What
came before, what came after those incomplete phrases he would not
permit his mind to formulate in words. But he could not shake off the
effect of the dream, could not stifle altogether the impulse that
plucked at his resolve.

For more than an hour he rode and tried to fix his mind upon the thing
he had set out to do. He knew perfectly well where he was going--and
it was _not_ to see Mary Hope. Neither was his destination Lava Creek
nor the drying range on either side. His first two days of hard riding
had been not altogether fruitless, and he had enough to think of
without thinking of Mary Hope. Certain cold facts stared at him, and
gibbered their sinister meaning, and dared him to ride on and discover
other facts, blood-brothers of these that haunted him o' nights.

Coaley, feeling his rider's mood, sensing also the portent of the
heavy, heat-saturated atmosphere and the rolling thunder heads, slowed
his springy trot to a walk and tossed his head uneasily from side to
side. Then, quite without warning, Lance wheeled the horse short
around and touched the reeking flanks with his heels.

"I'm seventeen kinds of a damn fool--but I can't stand any more of
this!" he muttered savagely, and rode at a sharp trot with his back to
the slow-gathering storm.

He found Mary Hope half