ngers were engaged with the inkpot
and her head with schemes for further sonneting. Chloe was becoming
famous. To Peter, who was unmodern, there was little to be gained in
arguing against a state of affairs so crassly absurd as career-getting for
women. At such seasons it behooved sane men to pray for patience rather
than the gift of tongues. When the disheartened fair should weary of the
phantom pursuit, then might the man of patience have his little day. Peter
winced at the picture. To the world he knew that his long waiting on the
brink of the bog, while his ambitious lady floundered after false lights,
was, in truth, no more impressive a spectacle than the anguished squawking
of a hen who watches a brood of ducklings, of her own hatching, try their
luck in the pond.

And there was Judith the great-hearted, Judith who was as inspiring as a
breath of hill air, Judith with no thought of careers beyond the loyal
doing of her woman's part, Judith, trusty and loyal--and Judith with that
accursed family connection!

Peter tightened his cinch and turned his horse westward. The stars had
grown dim in the sky. The world that the night before had seemed to float
in a silvery effulgence looked gray and old. The cabin in the valley
flaunted its wretched squalor, like a beggar seeking alms on the highway.
Riding by, Peter lifted his sombrero. "Sweet dreams, gentle lady!" He dug
the rowel into his horse's side and began his day at no laggard pace. Nor
did he spare his horse in the miles that lay between him and breakfast.
The beast would have no more work to do that day, when once he reached
camp, and Peter was not in his tenderest mood as he spurred through the
gray of the morning. The pale, chastened world was all his own at this
hour. Not a creature was stirring. The mountains, the valleys, the softly
huddled hills slept in the deep hush that is just before the dawn. He
looked about with questioning eyes. Last night this very road had been a
pale silver thread winding from the mountain crests into a world of
dreams. To-day it was but a trail across the range. "Where are the snows
of yester year?" he quoted, with a certain early-morning grimness. At
heart he was half inclined to believe Judith responsible for the vanished
world; Judith, Judith--he was riding away from her as fast as his horse
could gallop, and yet his thoughts perversely lingered about the cabin in
the valley.

After a couple of hours' hard riding he could dim