uine surprise and pleasure in his expression.

"Well, I'd never have known you," he said, surveying her from head to
foot. "It's funny. I had the clearest picture of you in mind. But you're
not at all like I imagined. The Columbine I remember was thin,
white-faced, and all eyes."

"It's been a long time. Seven years," she replied. "But I knew you.
You're older, taller, bigger, but the same Buster Jack."

"I hope not," he said, frankly condemning that former self. "Dad needs
me. He wants me to take charge here--to be a man. I'm back now. It's
good to be home. I never was worth much. Lord! I hope I don't disappoint
him again."

"I hope so, too," she murmured. To hear him talk frankly, seriously,
like this counteracted the unfavorable impression she had received. He
seemed earnest. He looked down at the ground, where he was pushing
little pebbles with the toe of his boot. She had a good opportunity to
study his face, and availed herself of it. He did look like his father,
with his big, handsome head, and his blue eyes, bolder perhaps from
their prominence than from any direct gaze or fire. His face was pale,
and shadowed by worry or discontent. It seemed as though a repressed
character showed there. His mouth and chin were undisciplined. Columbine
could not imagine that she despised anything she saw in the features of
this young man. Yet there was something about him that held her aloof.
She had made up her mind to do her part unselfishly. She would find the
best in him, like him for it, be strong to endure and to help. Yet she
had no power to control her vague and strange perceptions. Why was it
that she could not feel in him what she liked in Jim Montana or Lem or
Wilson Moore?

"This was my second long stay away from home," said Belllounds. "The
first was when I went to school in Kansas City. I liked that. I was
sorry when they turned me out--sent me home.... But the last three years
were hell."

His face worked, and a shade of dark blood rippled over it.

"Did you work?" queried Columbine.

"Work! It was worse than work.... Sure I worked," he replied.

Columbine's sharp glance sought his hands. They looked as soft and
unscarred as her own. What kind of work had he done, if he told
the truth?

"Well, if you work hard for dad, learn to handle the cowboys, and never
take up those old bad habits--"

"You mean drink and cards? I swear I'd forgotten them for three
years--until yesterday. I reckon I've the bette