tly heaven for me," replied Columbine, with a
little laugh that gave Wade a twinge.

Then the lovers began to talk about spring coming, about horses and
cattle, and feed, about commonplace ranch matters not interesting to
them, but which seemed to make conversation and hide their true
thoughts. Wade listened, and it seemed to him that he could read
their hearts.

"Lass, an' you, Wils--you're wastin' time an' gettin' nowhere,"
interposed Wade. "Now let me go, so's you'll be alone."

"You stay right there," ordered Moore.

"Why, Ben, I'm ashamed to say that I actually forgot you were here,"
said Columbine.

"Then I'll remind you," rejoined the hunter. "Collie, tell us about Old
Bill an' Jack."

"Tell you? What?"

"Well, I've seen changes in both. So has Wils, though Wils hasn't seen
as much as he's heard from Lem an' Montana an' the Andrews boys."

"Oh!..." Columbine choked a little over her exclamation of
understanding. "Dad has gotten a new lease on life, I guess. He's happy,
like a boy sometimes, an' good as gold.... It's all because of the
change in Jack. That is remarkable. I've not been able to believe my own
eyes. Since that night Jack came home and had the--the understanding
with dad he has been another person. He has left me alone. He treats me
with deference, but not a familiar word or look. He's kind. He offers
the little civilities that occur, you know. But he never intrudes upon
me. Not one word of the past! It is as if he would earn my respect, and
have that or nothing.... Then he works as he never worked before--on
dad's books, in the shop, out on the range. He seems obsessed with some
thought all the time. He talks little. All the old petulance, obstinacy,
selfishness, and especially his sudden, queer impulses, and bull-headed
tenacity--all gone! He has suffered physical distress, because he never
was used to hard work. And more, he's suffered terribly for the want of
liquor. I've heard him say to dad: 'It's hell--this burning thirst. I
never knew I had it. I'll stand it, if it kills me.... But wouldn't it
be easier on me to take a drink now and then, at these bad times?'...
And dad said: 'No, son. Break off for keeps! This taperin' off is no
good way to stop drinkin'. Stand the burnin'. An' when it's gone you'll
be all the gladder an' I'll be all the prouder.'... I have not forgotten
all Jack's former failings, but I am forgetting them, little by little.
For dad's sake I'm overjoyed. For Jack's