ty, and my father never demanded anything of me. I haven't any
motives now. A few days ago I was interested in forestry. At this time it
all seems futile. What's the use of my trying to live?"

Part of all this despairing cry arose from weariness, and part from a
luxurious desire to be comforted, for it was sweet to feel her sympathy.
He even took a morbid pleasure in the distress of her eyes and lips while
her rich voice murmured in soothing protest.

She, on her part, was frightened for him, and as she thought of the long
ride still before them she wrung her hands. "Oh, what shall I do? What
shall I do?" she moaned.

Instantly smitten into shame, into manlier mood, he said: "Don't worry
about me, please don't. I can ride. I'm feeling better. You must not
weaken. Please forgive my selfish complaints. I'm done! You'll never hear
it again. Come, let us go on. I can ride."

"If we can reach Miller's ranch--"

"I can ride to _your_ ranch," he declared, and rose with such new-found
resolution that she stared at him in wonder.

He was able to smile. "I've had my little crying spell. I've relieved my
heart of its load. I didn't mean to agonize you. It was only a slump." He
put his hand to his head. "I must be a comical figure. Wonder what that
cowboy thought of me?"

His sudden reversal to cheer was a little alarming to her, but at length
she perceived that he had in truth mastered his depression, and bringing
up the horses she saddled them, and helped him to mount. "If you get
tired or feel worse, tell me, and we'll go into camp," she urged as they
were about to start.

"You keep going till I give the sign," he replied; and his voice was so
firm and clear that her own sunny smile came back. "I don't know what to
make of you," she said. "I reckon you must be a poet."

XIII

THE GOSSIPS AWAKE

It was dark when they reached the village, but Wayland declared his
ability to go on, although his wounded head was throbbing with fever and
he was clinging to the pommel of his saddle; so Berrie rode on.

Mrs. McFarlane, hearing the horses on the bridge, was at the door and
received her daughter with wondering question, while the stable-hands,
quick to detect an injured man, hurried to lift Norcross down from his
saddle.

"What's the matter?" repeated Mrs. McFarlane.

"He fell and struck his head on a stone," Berea hastily explained. "Take
the horses, boys, mother and I will look out for Mr. Norcross."

The me