is through the heart
come his finest ideals, from the heart his truest words and deeds.

At one such time, and the week before she came again, Jack French,
looking through the window of his own heart and filled with a great
pity for the young man who had come to be more than brother to him,
had ventured to speak. But only once, for with such finality of tone
and manner as made answer impossible, Kalman had made reply.

"No, Jack, I had my dream. It was great while it lasted,
but it is past, and I shall dream no more."

"Kalman, my boy, don't make a mistake. Life is a long thing,
and can be very dreary." There was no mistaking the pain in
Jack's voice.

"Is it, Jack?" said Kalman. "I am afraid you are right. But I
can never forget--my father was a foreigner, and I am one, and
the tragedy of that awful night can never be wiped from her mind.
The curse of it I must bear!"

"But, Kalman, you are not ashamed of your blood--of your father?"

Then Kalman lifted up his head and his voice rang out. "Of my
blood? No. But it is not hers. Of my father? No. To me he was
the just avenger of a great cause. But to her," his voice sank to
a hoarse whisper, "he was a murderer! No, Jack, it may not be."

"But, Kalman, my boy," remonstrated Jack, "think of all--"

"Think? For these five years I have thought till my heart is sore
with thinking! No, Jack, don't fret. I don't. Thank God there are
other things. There is work, a people to help, a country to serve."

"Other things!" said French bitterly. "True, there are, and great
things, but, Kalman, boy, I have tried them, and to-night after
thirty years, as I speak to you--my God!--my heart is sick of
hunger for something better than things! Love! my boy, love is
the best!"

"Poor Jack!" said Kalman softly, "dear old boy!" and went out.
But of that hunger of the heart they never spoke again.

And now at the end of five years' absence she was coming again.
How vivid to Kalman was his remembrance of the last sight he had
of her. It was at the Night Hawk ranch, and on the night succeeding
that of the tragedy at the mine. In the inner room, beside his
father's body, he was sitting, his mind busy with the tragic pathos
of that grief-tortured, storm-beaten life. Step by step, as far as
he knew it, he was tracing the tear-wet, blood-stained path that life
had taken; its dreadful scenes of blood and heart agony were passing
before his mind; when gradually he became aware that in the ne