ed by a heavy tread. It passed out of
the living-room and came down the porch toward her door. Then followed
a knock.

"Dad!" she called, swiftly rising.

Belllounds entered, leaving the door ajar. The sunlight streamed in.

"Wal, Collie, I see you're bracin' up," he said.

"Oh yes, dad, I'm--I'm all right," she replied, eager to help or comfort
him.

The old rancher seemed different from the man of the past months. The
pallor of a great shock, the havoc of spent passion, the agony of
terrible hours, showed in his face. But Old Bill Belllounds had come
into his own again--back to the calm, iron pioneer who had lived all
events, over whom storm of years had broken, whose great spirit had
accepted this crowning catastrophe as it had all the others, who saw his
own life clearly, now that its bitterest lesson was told.

"Are you strong enough to bear another shock, my lass, an' bear it
now--so to make an end--so to-morrer we can begin anew?" he asked, with
the voice she had not heard for many a day. It was the voice that told
of consideration for her.

"Yes, dad," she replied, going to him.

"Wal, come with me. I want you to see Wade."

He led her out upon the porch, and thence into the living-room, and from
there into the room where lay the two dead men, one on each side.
Blankets covered the prone, quiet forms.

Columbine had meant to beg to see Wade once before he was laid away
forever. She dreaded the ordeal, yet strangely longed for it. And here
she was self-contained, ready for some nameless shock and uplift, which
she divined was coming as she had divined the change in Belllounds.

Then he stripped back the blanket, disclosing Wade's face. Columbine
thrilled to the core of her heart. Death was there, white and cold and
merciless, but as it had released the tragic soul, the instant of
deliverance had been stamped on the rugged, cadaverous visage, by a
beautiful light; not of peace, nor of joy, nor of grief, but of hope!
Hope had been the last emotion of Hell-Bent Wade.

"Collie, listen," said the old rancher, in deep and trembling tones.
"When a man's dead, what he's been comes to us with startlin' truth.
Wade was the whitest man I ever knew. He had a queer idee--a twist in
his mind--an' it was thet his steps were bent toward hell. He imagined
thet everywhere he traveled there he fetched hell. But he was wrong. His
own trouble led him to the trouble of others. He saw through life. An'
he was as big in h