to Claire and Seth that
she should remain all winter in the Park; but they rose up together
against any such scheme. It was absurd, they agreed. They would be
delighted to have her with them as many summers as she might wish; and
they were already counting on her return to them next June. But the
Park in winter was no place for a woman, unless she had been long
inured to such hardships as were involved in that hibernation. Claire
had remained two winters there, it was true, but Seth had vowed that
she should never miss the last stage again. Marion's proposal only
clinched the matter the more firmly; and it was eventually agreed that
Claire should go with Marion to New York, where they would live very
quietly, taking what pleasures their means would permit, until spring
should bring them back to the mountains. And so, barring a miracle,
she was at the end of her hopes.

Meanwhile, she had heard from Robert. He was nearly wild, he wrote.
The big deal was going slowly--not badly, but with maddening delays.
He was tempted to "chuck the whole business," though it meant
thousands, perhaps half a million. Yet how could he do that? He was
working for her; and if he left Denver the deal would certainly fall
through. But there was yet time; any day the stubborn partner might
yield; and so on. Poor Robert! thought Marion. She imagined what
Philip would have done if he had wanted her as Robert did. Would any
deal, any prospect of millions, have kept him away from her? So she
reasoned, forgetting entirely the other side of the case. Haig, if she
could have asked him, would have told her: yes, that's all very well,
but the man would have to get those thousands or other thousands
afterwards, just the same; a woman wants to have her cake and eat it
too; and so much the worse for the man if he cannot dance attendance
on her and make money for her at the same time!

She wrote to Robert that be must not think of leaving his business.
Moreover, she would soon be in Denver, on her way back home.

In the late afternoon Haig leaned against Sunnysides' corral, smoking
his pipe and gazing fixedly at the golden outlaw. The air was very
still, almost too still, as if nature had paused before a sudden
and violent alteration of her mood. In the bright sky, a little
hard even for September, there was no cloud, except on the western
horizon, where dark vapors hovered over the bald head of Thunder
Mountain. The scent of the harvest in the meadows b