has anyone, no matter what the incentive
may be, the right to make known after another's death things which
during that person's life were carefully concealed?"

The steady gaze shifted to his companion, held there compellingly. "In
other words, is a tragedy any less a tragedy, any more public property,
because the actors are dead? Answer me honest, Grannis."

Impassively as before the overseer shook his head. "No, I think not,"
he said. "Let the dead past bury its dead."

A moment longer the other remained motionless, then, before his
companion realized what he was doing, Ben had opened the door of the
sheet-iron heater and tossed the paper in his fingers fair among the
glowing coals.

"Thank you, Grannis," he said, "I agree with you." He stood a second
looking into the suddenly kindled blaze. "As you say, to the living,
life. Let the dead past bury its dead."

The flame died down until upon the coals lay a thin, curling film of
carbon. Grannis shifted in his seat.

"Nevertheless," he commented indifferently, "you've done a foolish act."
A pause; then he went on deliberately as before. "You've destroyed the
only evidence that proves you Rankin's son."

Involuntarily Blair stiffened, seeming about to speak. But he did not.
Instead, he closed the stove and resumed his former seat.

"By the way," he digressed, "I just received a letter from Scotty Baker.
I wrote him some time ago about--Mr. Rankin. He answered from England."

Grannis made no comment, and, the conversation being obviously at an
end, after a bit he rose, and with a taciturn "Good-night," left the
room.

* * * * *

Days and weeks passed. The dead rigor of Winter gave way to traces of
Spring. On the high places the earth began to turn brown, the buffalo
grass to peep into view. By day the water slushed under the feet of the
cattle, and ran merrily in the draws of the rolling country. By night
it froze into marvellous frost-work; daintier and more intricate of
pattern than any made by man. Overhead, flocks of wild ducks in
irregular geometric patterns sailed north at double the speed of express
trains. With their mellow "Honk--honk," sweetest sound of all to a
frontiersman's ears, harbingers of Spring indeed, far above the level of
the ducks, amid the very clouds themselves, the geese, in regular
triangles, winged their way toward the snow-lands. At first they seemed
to pass only by day; then, as the season advanced