ade no mental reservation as he spoke; there was no pleading for
exception in Grace Kerr's dark eyes that he could grant. Long as he had
nestled the romance between them in his breast, long as he had looked
into the West and sent his dream out after her, he could not, in this
sore hour, forgive her the taint of her blood.

He felt that all tenderness in him toward any of her name was dead. It
had been a pretty fancy to hold, that thought of finding her, but she
was only swamp-fire that had lured him to the door of hell. Still the
marvel of his meeting her, the violet scent of his old dream, lingered
sweetly with him like the perfume that remains after a beautiful woman
whose presence has illuminated a room. So hard does romance die.

"I think I'll have to break my word to you and buckle on my gun again
for a little while," she said. "Mr. Wilson can't ride the fence alone,
capable and willing as he is, and ready to go day and night."

"Leave it to him till I'm out again, Vesta; that will only be a day or
two----"

"A day or two! Three or four weeks, if you do well."

"No, not that long, not anything like that long," he denied with
certainty. "They didn't hurt me very much."

"Well, if they didn't hurt you much they damaged you considerably."

He grinned over the serious distinction that she made between the words.
Then he thought, pleasantly, that Vesta's voice seemed fitted to her
lips like the tone of some beautiful instrument. It was even and soft,
slow and soothing, as her manner was deliberate and well calculated, her
presence a comfort to the eye and the mind alike.

An exceptional combination of a girl, he reflected, speculating on what
sort of man would marry her. Whoever he was, whatever he might be, he
would be only secondary to her all through the compact. That chap would
come walking a little way behind her all the time, with a contented eye
and a certain pride in his situation. It was a diverting fancy as he lay
there in the darkening room, Vesta coming down the years a strong,
handsome, proud figure in the foreground, that man just far enough
behind her to give the impression as he passed that he belonged to her
_entourage_, but never quite overtaking her.

Even so, the world might well envy the man his position. Still, if a
man should happen along who could take the lead--but Vesta wouldn't have
him; she wouldn't surrender. It might cost her pain to go her way with
her pretty head up, her eyes on