," replied Columbine.

"Wal, I reckon I'll not ask anybody."

"Why not, dad?"

"No one can gamble on thet son of mine, even on his weddin'-day,"
replied Belllounds, gloomily.

"Dad, What'd Jack do to-day?"

"I'm not sayin' he did anythin'," answered the rancher.

"Dad, you can gamble on me."

"Wal, I should smile," he said, putting his big arm around her. "I wish
you was Jack an' Jack was you."

At that moment the young man spoken of slouched into the room, with his
head bandaged, and took a seat at the supper-table.

"Wal, Collie, let's go an' get it," said the rancher, cheerily. "I can
always eat, anyhow."

"I'm hungry as a bear," rejoined Columbine, as she took her seat, which
was opposite Jack.

"Where 'ye you been?" he asked, curiously.

"Why, good evening, Jack! Did you finally notice me?... I've been riding
Pronto, the first time since he was hurt. Had a lovely ride--up through
Sage Valley."

Jack glowered at her with the one unbandaged eye, and growled something
under his breath, and then began to stab meat and potatoes with
his fork.

"What's the matter, Jack? Aren't you well?" asked Columbine, with a
solicitude just a little too sweet to be genuine.

"Yes, I'm well," snapped Jack.

"But you look sick. That is, what I can see of your face looks sick.
Your mouth droops at the corners. You're very pale--and red in spots.
And your one eye glows with unearthly woe, as if you were not long for
this world!"

The amazing nature of this speech, coming from the girl who had always
been so sweet and quiet and backward, was attested to by the
consternation of Jack and the mirth of his father.

"Are you making fun of me?" demanded Jack.

"Why, Jack! Do you think I would make fun of you? I only wanted to say
how queer you look.... Are you going to be married with one eye?"

Jack collapsed at that, and the old man, after a long stare of
open-mouthed wonder, broke out: "Haw! Haw! Haw!... By Golly! lass--I'd
never believed thet was in you.... Jack, be game an' take your
medicine.... An' both of you forgive an' forget. Thar'll be quarrels
enough, mebbe, without rakin' over the past."

When alone again Columbine reverted to a mood vastly removed from her
apparent levity with the rancher and his son. A grave and
inward-searching thought possessed her, and it had to do with the
uplift, the spiritual advance, the rise above mere personal welfare,
that had strangely come to her through Bent Wade. From th