you help yourself with
your left hand?" she inquired.

"That's one worse," he answered, taking it from under the blanket, where
it had been concealed.

"Oh!" cried Columbine, in dismay.

"Broke two bones in this one," said Wilson, with animation. "Say,
Collie, our friend Wade is a doctor, too. Never saw his beat!"

"And a cook, too, for here's your dinner. You must sit up," ordered
Columbine.

"Fold that blanket and help me up on it," replied Moore.

How strange and disturbing for Columbine to bend over him, to slip her
arms under him and lift him! It recalled a long-forgotten motherliness
of her doll-playing days. And her face flushed hot.

"Can't you move?" she asked, suddenly becoming aware of how dead a
weight the cowboy appeared.

"Not--very much," he replied. Drops of sweat appeared on his bruised
brow. It must have hurt him to move.

"You said your foot was all right."

"It is," he returned. "It's still on my leg, as I know darned well."

"Oh!" exclaimed Columbine, dubiously. Without further comment she began
to feed him.

"It's worth getting licked to have this treat," he said.

"Nonsense!" she rejoined.

"I'd stand it again--to have you come here and feed me.... But not from
_him_."

"Wilson, I never knew you to be facetious before. Here, take this."

Apparently he did not see her outstretched hand.

"Collie, you've changed. You're older. You're a woman, now--and the
prettiest--"

"Are you going to eat?" demanded Columbine.

"Huh!" exclaimed the cowboy, blankly. "Eat? Oh yes, sure. I'm powerful
hungry. And maybe Heaven-Sent Wade can't cook!"

But Columbine had trouble in feeding him. What with his helplessness,
and his propensity to watch her face instead of her hands, and her own
mounting sensations of a sweet, natural joy and fitness in her proximity
to him, she was hard put to it to show some dexterity as a nurse. And
all the time she was aware of Wade, with his quiet, forceful presence,
hovering near. Could he not see her hands trembling? And would he not
think that weakness strange? Then driftingly came the thought that she
would not shrink from Wade's reading her mind. Perhaps even now he
understood her better than she understood herself.

"I can't--eat any more," declared Moore, at last.

"You've done very well for an invalid," observed Columbine. Then,
changing the subject, she asked, "Wilson, you're going to stay
here--winter here, dad would call it?"

"Yes."

"Are thos