with his acquaintances. They came to fill his life, so that
he thought less often of Chip and Cal and Happy Jack and Slim. Others
were gradually taking their places.

No one had as yet come to lift Miss Satterly's brown eyes from the deep
places of his heart, because he again shied at women; but he was able
to draw a veil before them so that they did not haunt him so much. He
began to whistle once more, as he went about his work; but he never
whistled "Good Old Summertime." There were other foolish songs become
popular; he rather fancied "Navajo" these days.

It was past April Fool's day, and Weary was singing "Nava, Nava, my
Navajo," melodiously while he spread the straw bedding with his fork.
It was a beastly day, even for that climate, but he was glad of it. He
had only to fill a dozen mangers and his morning's work was done, with
the prospect of an idle forenoon; for no one would want to drive,
today, unless it was absolutely necessary.

"I have a love for-r you that will grow-ow;
If you'll have a coon for a beau--"

trilled Weary, and snapped the wires off a bale of hay and tore it
open, in a hurry to finish.

A familiar, pungent odor smote his nostrils and he straightened. For a
minute he stood perfectly still; then his fingers groped tremblingly in
the hay, closed upon something, and every nerve in him quivered. He
held it fast in his shaking hands and sat down weakly upon the torn
bale.

It was a branch off a sage bush--dry, shapeless, bruised in the press,
but it carried its message bravely. Holding it close to his face,
drinking in the smell of it greedily, he closed his eyes involuntarily.

Great, gray plains closed in upon him--dear, familial plains, scarred
and broken with sharp-nosed hills and deep, water-worn coulees gleaming
barren and yellow in the sun. The blue, blue sky was bending down to
meet the hills, with feathery, white clouds trailing lazily across.
His cheeks felt the cool winds which flapped his hat-brim and tingled
his blood. His knees pressed the throb and life, the splendid, working
muscles of a galloping horse.

Weary's head went down upon his hands, with the bit of sage pressed
hard against his cheek.

Now he was racing over the springy sod which sent a sweet, grassy smell
up to meet him. Wild range cattle lumbered out of his way, ran a few
paces and stopped to gaze after him with big, curious eyes. Before him
stood the white-tented camp of the round-up, and t