sual emotion, Mose replied: "You haven't pined away any."

"Pined!" exclaimed her mother. "Well, I should say not. You should see
her when Jim Haynes----"

"Mother!" called the girl sharply, and Pink, now a beautiful child of
eight, came opportunely into the room and drew the conversation to
herself.

As Mose, with Pink at his knee, sat watching the two women moving about
the table, a half-formed resolution arose in his brain. He was weary of
wandering, weary of loneliness. This comfortable, homely room, this
tender little form in his arms, made an appeal to him which was as
powerful as it was unexpected. He had lived so long in his blanket, with
only Kintuck for company, that at this moment it seemed as if these were
the best things to do--to stay with Reynolds, to make Cora happy, and to
rest. He had seen all phases of wild life and had carried out his plans
to see the wonders of America. He had crossed the Painted Desert and
camped beside the Colorado in the greatest canon in the world. He had
watched the Mokis while they danced with live rattlesnakes held between
their lips. He had explored the cliff-dwellings of the Navajo country
and had looked upon the sea of peaks which tumbles away in measureless
majesty from Uncompahgre's eagle-crested dome. He had peered into the
boiling springs of the Yellowstone, and had lifted his eyes to the white
Tetons whose feet are set in a mystic lake, around which the loons laugh
all the summer long. He knew the chiefs of a dozen tribes and was a
welcome guest among them. In his own mind he was no longer young--his
youth was passing, perhaps the time had come to settle down.

Cora turned suddenly from the table, where she stood arranging the
plates and knives and forks with a pleasant bustle, and said:

"O Mose! we've got two or three letters for you. We've had 'em ever so
long--I don't suppose they will be of much good to you now. I'll get
them for you."

"They look old," he said as he took them from her hand. "They look as if
they'd been through the war." The first was from his father, the second
from Jack, and the third in a woman's hand--could only be Mary's. He
stared at it--almost afraid to open it in the presence of the family. He
read the one from his father first, because he conceived it less
important, and because he feared the other.

"MY DEAR SON: I am writing to you through Jack, although he
does not feel sure we can reach you. I want to let you know