o eat Christmas dinner with her
and that she would sing If I Were a Voice. He was not super-subtle and
yet something in this letter made his throat fill and his head a little
_dizzy_. If it did not mean that she had broken with King, then truth
could not be conveyed in lines of black ink.

He tore open Jack's letter. It was short and to the point.

"DEAR HARRY: If you can get away come back to Marmion and see
Mary again. She wants to see you _bad_. I don't know what has
happened but I _think_ she has given King his walking
papers--and all on account of you. _I know it._ It can't be
anybody else. She talked of you the entire evening. O man!
but she was beautiful. She sang for me but her mind was away
in the mountains. I could see that. It was her interest in
you made her so nice to me. Now that's the God's truth. Come
back and get her.

"Yours in haste,
"JACK."

Mose tingled with the sudden joy of it. Jack's letter, so unlike his
usual calm, was convincing. He sprang up, a smile on his face, his eyes
shining with happiness, his blood surging through his heart, and then he
remembered the letters were three years old! The gray cloud settled down
upon him--his limbs grew cold, and the light went out of his eyes.

Three years! While he was camping in the Grand Canon with the lizards
and skunks she was waiting to hear from him. While he sat in the shade
of the walls of Walpi, surrounded by hungry dogs and pot-bellied
children, she was singing for him and wondering whether her letter had
ever reached him. Three years! A thousand things could happen in three
years. She may have died!--a cold shudder touched him--she might tire of
waiting and marry some one else--or she might have gone away to the
East, that unknown and dangerous jungle of cities.

He sprang up again. "I will go to see her!" he said to himself. Then he
remembered. His horse was worn, he had no money and no suitable
clothing. Then he thought: "I will write." It did not occur to him to
telegraph, for he had never done such a thing in his life.

He walked out into the sitting-room, his letters in his hands.

"How far do you call it to Wagon Wheel?"

"About thirty miles, and all up hill."

"Will you loan me one of your bronchos?"

"Certain sure, my boy."

"I want to ride up there and send a couple of letters."

"Better wait till morni