an think it over at your leisure."

With a contemptuous "Humph!" Mr. Underwood left the house. After he had
gone his sister sat for a while in deep thought, then, with a sigh, rose
and went about her accustomed duties. She had been far more keen than
her brother to observe the growing intimacy between her niece and
Darrell, and she had seen some indications on the previous evening which
troubled her, as much on Darrell's account as Kate's, for she had become
deeply attached to the young man, and she well knew that her brother
would not look upon him with favor as a suitor for his daughter.

Meanwhile, Darrell, on reaching the office, found work and study alike
impossible. The room seemed narrow and stifling; the medley of sound
from the adjoining offices and from the street was distracting. He
recalled the companions of his earlier days of pain and conflict,--the
mountains,--and his heart yearned for their restful silence, for the
soothing and uplifting of their solemn presence.

Having left a brief note on Mr. Underwood's desk he closed his office,
and, leaving the city behind him, started on foot up the familiar canyon
road. After a walk of an hour or more he left the road, and, striking
into a steep, narrow trail, began the ascent of one of the mountains of
the main range. It still lacked a little of midday when he at last found
himself on a narrow bench, near the summit, in a small growth of pines
and firs. He stopped from sheer exhaustion and looked about him. Not a
sign of human life was visible; not a sound broke the stillness save an
occasional breath of air murmuring through the pines and the trickling
of a tiny rivulet over the rocks just above where he stood. Going to the
little stream he caught the crystal drops as they fell, quenching his
thirst and bathing his heated brow; then, somewhat refreshed, he braced
himself for the inevitable conflict.

Slowly he paced up and down the rocky ledge, giving no heed to the
passage of time, all his faculties centred upon the struggle between the
inexorable demands of conscience on the one hand and the insatiate
cravings of a newly awakened passion on the other. Vainly he strove to
find some middle ground. Gradually, as his brain grew calm, the various
courses of action which had at first suggested themselves to his mind
appeared weak and cowardly, and the only course open to him was that of
renunciation and of self-immolation.

With a bitter cry he threw himself, f