or him to do? Suppose that, after all, he should
succeed--that, after all, life might yet unfold before him as he had
dreamed and planned! Unconsciously he stole a glance at the gray-clad
figure on the blanket roll.

Constance sat cool, sweet, delicate but vital, refreshing to look upon,
her gray skirt folded across her knees, the patent-leather tips of her
little shoes buried in the carpet spread by the forest conifers. He
could just catch the curve of her cheek and chin, the droop of the long
lashes which he knew so well. Ah, if he could only go to her and tell
her the absolute truth--if only it could be right for him, all his life,
to tell her the truth, to tell her of his reverence, his loyalty, his
love, through all these years! If, indeed, this opportunity should come
to him, might not all of this one day be possible? He set his mind to
his work, even as the girl held her heart to its waiting.

There came the sound of a distant whistle approaching up the trail, and
ere long Tom Osby appeared, stumbling along in his pigeon-toed way, his
rifle in the crook of his arm. Tom saluted the strangers briefly, and
leaned his rifle against the wagon wheel. Dan Anderson made known the
names of the visitors, and Tom immediately put in action his own notions
of hospitality. Stepping to the wagon side he fished out a kerosene can,
stoppered with a potato stuck on the spout. He removed the potato,
picked up a tin cup, and proceeded calmly to pour out a generous portion.

"I always carry my liquor this way, gentlemen," said he, "because it's
convenient to pour in the dark, and ain't so apt to get spilled. This
here liquor sometimes makes folks forget their geogerphy. 'Missin' me
one place, search another,' as Walt Whitman says. If a fellow gets a
drink of this, he may take to the tall trees, or he may run straight on
out of the country. You never can tell. Drink hearty."

Ellsworth and Barkley, for the sake of complacency, complied with such
show of pleasure as they could muster.

"Now," said Tom, "I'll cook you a real breakfast. My _compadre_, here,
can't drink and he can't cook."

"Three breakfasts before ten o'clock?" protested Constance.

But Tom was inexorable. "Eat when you get a chanct," he insisted.
"That's a good rule."

Barkley drew Ellsworth to one side. "I can't figure these people out,"
he complained.

Ellsworth chuckled. "I told you you'd need help, Barkley," he said.
"They've got ways of