eir first
meeting he had possessed a singular attraction for her that now, in the
light of the meaning of his life, seemed to Columbine to be the man's
nobility and wisdom, arising out of his travail, out of the terrible
years that had left their record upon his face.

And so Columbine strove to bind forever in her soul the spirit which had
arisen in her, interpreting from Wade's rude words of philosophy that
which she needed for her own light and strength.

She appreciated her duty toward the man who had been a father to her.
Whatever he asked that would she do. And as for the son she must live
with the rest of her life, her duty there was to be a good wife, to bear
with his faults, to strive always to help him by kindness, patience,
loyalty, and such affection as was possible to her. Hate had to be
reckoned with, and hate, she knew, had no place in a good woman's heart.
It must be expelled, if that were humanly possible. All this was hard,
would grow harder, but she accepted it, and knew her mind.

Her soul was her own, unchangeable through any adversity. She could be
with that alone always, aloof from the petty cares and troubles common
to people. Wade's words had thrilled her with their secret, with their
limitless hope of an unknown world of thought and feeling. Happiness, in
the ordinary sense, might never be hers. Alas for her dreams! But there
had been given her a glimpse of something higher than pleasure and
contentment. Dreams were but dreams. But she could still dream of what
had been, of what might have been, of the beauty and mystery of life, of
something in nature that called sweetly and irresistibly to her. Who
could rob her of the rolling, gray, velvety hills, and the purple peaks
and the black ranges, among which she had been found a waif, a little
lost creature, born like a columbine under the spruces?

Love, sudden-dawning, inexplicable love, was her secret, still
tremulously new, and perilous in its sweetness. That only did she fear
to realize and to face, because it was an unknown factor, a threatening
flame. Her sudden knowledge of it seemed inextricably merged with the
mounting, strong, and steadfast stream of her spirit.

"I'll go to him. I'll tell him," she murmured. "He shall have _that!_...
Then I must bid him--good-by--forever!"

To tell Wilson would be sweet; to leave him would be bitter. Vague
possibilities haunted her. What might come of the telling? How dark
loomed the bitterness! S