Kate was about to break in with a laughing protest, but Helen stayed her with a gesture of denial.

"Wait," she cried, grandly. "Hear the whole charge. Look at your village life, which you plead guilty to. You, a high-spirited woman of independence and daring. You are no better than a sort of hired cleaner to a Meeting House you have adopted, and which is otherwise run by a lot of cut-throats and pirates, whose wives and offspring are no better than themselves. You attend the village social functions with as much appreciation of them as any village mother with an unwashed but growing family. You gossip with them and scandalize as badly as any of them, and, in your friendliness and charity toward them, I verily believe, for two cents, you'd go among the said unwashed offspring with a scrub-brush. What—what is coming to you, Kate? You—a man-hunter? No—no," she went on, with a hopeless shake of her pretty head, "'tis no use talking. The big, big spirit of early womanhood has somehow failed you. It's failed us both. We are no longer man-hunters. The soaring Kate, bearing her less brave sister in her arms, has fallen. They have both tumbled to the ground. The early seed, so full of promise, has germinated and grown—but it's come up cabbages. And—and they're getting old. There you are, I can't help it. I've tripped over the agricultural furrow we've ploughed, and——. There!"

She flung out an arm dramatically, pointing down at the slight figure of a man coming toward them, slowly toiling up the slope of the valley.

"There he is," she cried. "Your artist-patient. Your dypsomaniac rancher. A symbol, a symbol of the bonds which are crushing the brave spirits of our—ahem!—young hearts."

But Kate ignored the approaching man. She had eyes only for the bright face before her.

"You're a great child," she declared warmly. "I ought to be angry. I ought to be just mad with you. I believe I really am. But—but the cabbage business has broken up the storm of my feelings. Cabbage? Oh, dear." She laughed softly. "You, with your soft, wavy hair, dressed as though we had a New York hairdresser in the village. You, with your great gray eyes, your charming little nose and cupid mouth. You, with your beautiful new frock, only arrived from New York two days ago, and which, by the way, I don't think you ought to wear sprawling upon dusty ground. You—a cabbage! It just robs all you've said of, I won't say truth, but—sense. There, child, you've said your say. But you needn't worry about me. I'm not changed—really. Maybe I do many things that seem strange to you, but—but—I know what I'm doing. Poor old Charlie. Look at him. I often wonder what'll be the end of him."

Kate Seton sighed. It seemed as though there were a great depth of motherly tenderness in her heart, and just now that tenderness was directed toward the man approaching them.

But the lighter-minded Helen was less easily stirred. She smiled amusedly in her sister's direction. Then her bright eyes glanced swiftly down at the man.

"If all we hear is true, his end will be the penitentiary," she declared with decision.

Kate glanced round quickly, and her eyes suddenly became quite hard.

"Penitentiary?" she questioned sharply.

Helen shrugged.

"Everybody says he's the biggest whisky smuggler in the country, and—and his habits don't make things look much—different. Say, Kate, O'Brien told me the other day that the police had him marked down. They were only waiting to get him—red-handed."

The hardness abruptly died out of Kate's eyes. A faint sigh, perhaps of relief, escaped her.

"They'll never do that," she declared firmly. "Everybody's making a mistake about Charlie. I'm—sure. With all his failings Charlie's no whisky-runner. He's too gentle. He's too—too honest to descend to such a traffic."

Suddenly her eyes lit. She came close to Helen, and one firm hand grasped the soft flesh of the girl's arm, and closed tightly upon it.

"Say, child," she went on, in a deep, thrilling tone, "do you know what these whisky-runners risk? Do you? No. Of course you don't. They risk life as well as liberty. They're threatened every moment of their lives. The penalty is heavy, and when a man becomes a whisky-runner he has no intention of being taken—alive. Think of all that, and see where your imagination carries you. Then think of Charlie—as we know him. An artist. A warm-hearted, gentle creature, whose only sins are—against himself."

But the younger girl's face displayed skepticism.

"Yes—as we know him," she replied quickly. "I've thought of it while he's been giving me lessons in painting, when I've watched him with you, with that wonderful look of dog-like devotion in his eyes, while hanging on every word you uttered. I've thought of it all. And always running through my mind was the title of a book I once read—'Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.' You are sure, and I—I only wonder."

Kate's hand relaxed its hold upon her sister's arm. Her whole expression changed with a suddenness which, had she observed it, must have startled the other. Her eyes were cold, very cold, as she surveyed the sister to whom she was so devoted, and who could find it in her heart to think so harshly of one whom she regarded as a sick and ailing creature, needing the utmost support from natures morally stronger than his own.

"You must think as you will, Helen," she said coldly. "I know. I know Charlie. I understand the gentle heart that guides his every action, and I warn you you are wrong—utterly wrong. Everybody is wrong, the police—everybody."

She turned away and moved a few steps down the slope toward the approaching figure.



CHAPTER VII

CHARLIE BRYANT

As Kate stood out from the shadow of the trees, the man approaching, looking up, beheld her, and his dark eyes gladdened with a smile of delight. His greeting came up to her on the still air in a tone thrilling with warmth and deep feeling.

"Ho, Kate," he cried, in his deeply musical voice. "I saw you and Helen making this way, and guessed I'd just get around."

He was breathing hard as he came up the hill, his slight figure was bending forward with the effort of his climb. Kate watched him, much as an anxious mother might watch, with doubtful eyes, some effort of her ailing child. He reached her level and stood breathing heavily before her.

"I was around watching the boys at work down there on the new church," he went on. His handsome boyish face was flushing. The delicate, smooth, whiskerless skin was almost womanish in its texture, and betrayed almost every emotion stirring behind it. "Allan Dy came along with my mail. When I'd read it I felt I had to come and tell you the news right away. You see, I had to tell someone, and wanted you—two to be the first to hear it."

Kate's eyes were full of a smiling tender amusement at the ingenuousness of the man. Helen was looking on with less tenderness than amusement. He had not come to tell her the news—only Kate. The Kate whom she knew he worshipped, and who was the only rival in his life to his passionate craving for drink.

She surveyed the man now with searching eyes. What was it that inspired in her such mixed feeling? She knew she had a dislike and liking for him, all in the same moment. There was something fascinating about him. Yes, there certainly was. He was darkly handsome. Unusually so. He had big, soft, almost womanish eyes, full of passionate possibilities. The delicate moulding of his features was certainly beautiful. They were too delicate. Ah, that was it. They were womanish. Yes, he was womanish, and nothing womanish in a man could ever appeal to the essentially feminine heart of Helen. His figure was slight, but perfectly proportioned, and quite lacking in any suggestion of mannish strength. Again the thought of it brought Helen a feeling of repugnance. She hated effeminacy in a man. And yet, how could she associate effeminacy with a man of his known character? Was he not the most lawless of this lawless village? Then there was his outward seeming of gentleness. Yes, she had never known him otherwise, even in his moments of dreadful drunkenness, and she had witnessed those frequently enough during the past few years.

The whole personality of the man was an enigma to her. Nor was it altogether a pleasant enigma. She felt that somehow there was an ugly streak in him which her sister had utterly missed, and she only half guessed at. Furthermore, somehow in the back of her mind, she knew that she was not without fear of him.

In spite of Kate's denial, when the man came under discussion between them, her conviction always remained. She knew she liked him, and she knew she disliked him. She knew she despised him, and she knew she feared him. And through it all she looked on with eyes of amusement at the absurd, dog-like devotion he yielded to her strong, reliant, big-hearted, handsome sister.

"What's your news, Charlie?" she demanded, as Kate remained silent, waiting for him to continue. "Good, I'll bet five dollars, or you wouldn't come rushing to us."

The man turned to her as though it were an effort to withdraw his gaze from the face of the woman he loved.

"Good? Why, yes," he said quickly. "I'd surely hate to bring you two anything but good news." Then a shadow of doubt crossed his smiling features. "Maybe it won't be of much account to you, though," he went on, almost apologetically. "You see, it's just my brother. My big brother Bill. He's coming along out here to—to join me. He—he wants to ranch, so—he's coming here, and going to put all his money into my ranch, and suggests we run it together." Then he laughed shortly. "He says I've got experience and he's got dollars, and between us we ought to make things hum. He's a hustler, is Bill. Say, he's as much sense as a two-year-old bull, and just about as much strength. He can't see the difference between a sharp and a saint. They're all the same to him. He just loves everybody to death, till they kick him on the shins, then he hits out, and something's going to break. He's just the bulliest feller this side of life."

Kate was still smiling at the man's enthusiasm, but she had no answer for him. It was Helen who did the talking now, as she generally did, while Kate listened.

"Oh, Charlie," Helen cried impulsively, "you will let me see him, won't you? He's big—and—and manly? Is he good looking? But then he must be if he's your—I'm just dying to see this Big Brother Bill," she added hastily.

Charlie shook his head, laughing in his silent fashion.

"Oh, you'll see him all right. This village'll just be filled right up with him." Then his dark eyes became serious, and a hopeless shadow crept into them. "I'm glad he's coming," he went on, adding simply, "maybe he'll keep me straight."

Kate's smile died out in an instant. "Don't talk like that Charlie," she cried almost sharply. "Do you know what your words imply? Oh, it's too dreadful, and—and I won't have it. You don't need anybody's support. You can fight yourself. You can conquer yourself. I know it."

The man's eyes came back to the face he loved, and, for a moment, they looked into it as though he would read all that which lay hidden behind.

"You think so?" he questioned presently.

"I'm sure; sure as—as Fate," Kate cried impulsively.

"You think that all—all weakness can be conquered?"

Kate nodded. "If the desire to conquer lies behind it."

"Ah, yes."

The man's eyes had become even more thoughtful. There was a look in them which suggested to Helen that he was not wholly thinking of the thing Kate had in her mind.

"If the desire to conquer is there," he went on, "I suppose the habits—diseases of years, even—could be beaten. But—but——"

"But what?" Kate's demand came almost roughly.

Charlie shrugged his slim shoulders. "Nothing," he said. "I—I was just thinking. That's all."

"But it isn't all," cried Kate, in real distress.

Helen saw Charlie smile in a half-hearted fashion. For some moments his patience remained. Then, as Kate still waited for him to speak, his eyes abruptly lit with the deep fire of passion.

"Why? Why?" he cried suddenly. "Why must we conquer and fight with ourselves? Why beat down the nature given to us by a power beyond our control? Why not indulge the senses that demand indulgence, when, in such indulgence, we injure no one else? Oh, I argue it all with myself, and I try to reason, too. I try to see it all from the wholesome point of view from which you look at it, Kate. And I can't see it. I just can't see it. All I know is that the only thing that makes me attempt to deny myself is that I want your good opinion. Did I not want that I should slide down the road to hell, which I am told I am on, with all the delight of a child on a toboggan slide. Yes, I would. I surely would, Kate. I'm a drunkard, I know. A drunkard by nature. I have not the smallest desire to be otherwise, from any moral scruple. It's you that makes me want to straighten up, and you only. When I'm sober I'd be glad if I weren't. And when I'm not sober I'd hate being otherwise. Why should I be sober, when in such moments I suffer agonies of craving? Is it worth it? What does it matter if drink eases the craving, and lends me moments of peace which I am otherwise denied? These are the things I think all the time, and these are the thoughts which send me tumbling headlong—sometimes. But I know—yes, I know I am all wrong. I know that I would rather suffer all the tortures of hell than forfeit your—good will."

Kate sighed. She had no answer. She knew all that lay behind the man's passionate appeal. She knew, too, that he spoke the truth. She knew that the only reason he made any effort at all was because his devotion to herself was something just a shade stronger than this awful disease with which he was afflicted.

The hopelessness of the position for a moment almost overwhelmed her. She knew that she had no love—love such as he required—to give him in return. And when that finally became patent to him away would go the last vestige of self-restraint, and his fall would be headlong.

She knew his early story, and it was a pitiful one. She knew he was born of good parents, rich parents, in New York, that he was well educated. He had been brought up to become an artist, and therein had lain the secret of his fall. In Paris, and Rome, and other European cities, he had first tasted the dregs of youthful debauchery, and disaster had promptly set in. Then, after his student days, had come the final break. His parents abandoned him as a ne'er-do-well, and, setting him up as a rancher in a small way, had sent him out west, another victim of that over-indulgence which helps to populate the fringes of civilization.

The moment was a painful one, and Helen was quick to perceive her sister's distress. She came to her rescue with an effort at lightness. But her pretty eyes had become very gentle.

She turned to the man who had just taken a letter from his pocket.

"Tell us some more about Big Brother Bill," she said, with the pretense of a sigh. Then, with a little daring in her manner: "Do you think he'll like me? Because if he don't I'll sure go into mourning, and order my coffin, and bury me on the hillside with my face to the beautiful east—where I come from."

The man's moment of passionate discontent had passed, and he smiled into the girl's questioning eyes in his gentle fashion.

"He'll just be crazy about you, Helen," he said. "Say, when he gets his big, silly blue eyes on to you in that swell suit, why, he'll just hustle you right off to the parson, and you'll be married before you get a notion there's such a whirlwind around Rocky Springs."

"Is he—such a whirlwind?" the girl demanded with appreciation.

"He surely is," the man asserted definitely.

Helen sighed with relief. "I'm glad," she said. "You see, a whirlwind's a sort of summer storm. All sunshine—and—and well, a whirlwind don't suggest the cold, vicious, stormy gales of the folks in this village, nor the dozy summer zephyrs of the women in this valley. Yes, I'd like a whirlwind. His eyes are blue, and—silly?"

Charlie smiled more broadly as he nodded again. "His eyes are blue. And big. The other's a sort of term of endearment. You see, he's my big brother Bill, and I'm kind of fond of him."

Helen laughed joyously. "I'm real glad he's not silly," she cried. "Let's see. He's big. He's got blue eyes. He's good looking. He's—he's like a whirlwind. He's got lots of money." She counted the attractions off on her fingers. "Guess I'll sure have to marry him," she finished up with a little nod of finality.

Kate turned a flushed face in her direction.

"For goodness sake, Helen!" she cried in horror.

Helen's gray eyes opened to their fullest extent.

"Why, whatever's the matter, Kate?" she exclaimed. "Of course, I'll have to marry Big Brother Bill. Why, his very name appeals to me. May I, Charlie?" she went on, turning to the smiling man. "Would you like me for—a—a sister? I'm not a bad sort, am I, Kate?" she appealed mischievously. "I can sew, and cook, and—and darn. No, I don't mean curse words. I leave that to Kate's hired men. They're just dreadful. Really, I wasn't thinking of anything worse than Big Brother Bill's socks. When'll he be getting around? Oh, dear, I hope it won't be long. 'Specially if he's a—whirlwind."

Charlie was scanning the open pages of his letter.

"No. Guess he won't be long," he said, amusedly. "He says he'll be right along here the 16th. That's the day after to-morrow."

Helen ran to her sister's side, and shook her by the arm.

"Say, Kate," she cried, her eyes sparkling with pretended excitement. "Isn't that just great? Big Brother Bill's coming along day after to-morrow. Isn't it lucky I've just got my new suits? They'll last me three months, and by the time I have to get my fall suits he'll have to marry me." Then the dancing light in her eyes sobered. "Now, where shall we live?" she went on, with a pretense of deep consideration. "Shall we go east, or—or shall we live at Charlie's ranch? Oh, dear. It's so important not to make any mistake. And yet—you see, Charlie's ranch wants some one capable to look after it, doesn't it? It's kind of mousy. Big Brother Bill is sure to be particular—coming from the east."

Her audience were smiling broadly. Kate understood now that her irresponsible sister was simply letting her bubbling spirits overflow. Charlie had no other feelings than frank amusement at the girl's gaiety.

"Oh, he's most particular," he said readily. "You see, he's accustomed to Broadway restaurants."

Helen pulled a long face.

"I'm afraid your shack wouldn't make much of a Broadway restaurant." She shook her head with quaint solemnity. "Guess I never could get you right. Here you run a ranch, and make quite big with it, yet you never eat off a china plate, or spread your table with anything better than a newspaper. True, Charlie, you've got me beaten to death. Why, how you manage to run a ranch and make it pay is a riddle that 'ud put the poor old Sphinx's nose plump out of joint. I——"

Kate suddenly turned a pair of darkly frowning eyes upon her sister.

"You're talking a whole heap of nonsense," she declared severely. "What has the care of a home to do with making a ranch pay?"

Helen's eyes opened wide with mischief.

"Say, Kate," she cried with a great air of patronage, "you have a whole heap to learn. Big Brother Bill's coming right along from Broadway, with money and—notions. He's just bursting with them. Charlie's a prosperous rancher. What does B. B. B. expect? Why, he'll get around with fancy clothes and suitcases and trunks. He'll dream of rides over the boundless plains, of cow-punchers with guns and things. He'll have visions of big shoots, and any old sport, of a well-appointed ranch house, with proper fixings, and baths, and swell dinners and servants. But they're all visions. He'll blow in to Rocky Springs—he's a whirlwind, mind—and he'll find a prosperous rancher living in a tumbled-down shanty that hasn't been swept this side of five years, a blanket-covered bunk, and a table made of packing cases with the remains of last week's meals on it. That's what he'll find. Prosperous rancher, indeed. Say, Charlie," she finished up with fine scorn, "you know as much about living as Kate's two hired men, and dear knows they only exist." Suddenly she broke out into a rippling laugh. "And this is what my future husband is coming to. It's—it's an insult to me."

The girl paused, looking from one to the other with dancing eyes. But the more sober-minded Kate slipped her arm about her waist and began to move down the hill.

"Come along, dear," she said. "I must get right on down to the Meeting House. I—have work to do. You would chatter on all day if I let you."

In a moment Helen was all indignant protest.

"I like that. Say, did you hear, Charlie? She's accusing me, and all the time it's you doing the talking. But there, I'm always misjudged—always. She'll accuse me of trying to trap your brother—next. Anyway, I've got work to do, too. I've got to be at Mrs. John's for the new church meeting. So Kate isn't everybody. Come along."

Helen's laughter was good to hear as she dashed off in an attempt to drag her elder sister down the hill at a run. The man looked on happily as he kept pace with them. Helen was always privileged. Her sister adored her, and the whole village of Rocky Springs yielded her a measure of popularity which made her its greatest favorite. Even the women had nothing but smiles for her merry irresponsibility, and, as for the men, there was not one who would not willingly have sacrificed even his crooked ways for her smile.

Halfway down to the village Charlie again reverted to his news.

"Helen put the rest of it out of my head," he said, and his manner of speaking had lost the enjoyment of his earlier announcement. "It's about the police. They're going to set a station here. A corporal and two men. Fyles is coming, too. Inspector Fyles." His eyes were studying Kate's face as he made the announcement. Helen, too, was looking at her with quizzical eyes. "It's over that whisky-running a week ago. They're going to clean the place up. Fyles has sworn to do it. O'Brien told me this morning."

For some moments after his announcement neither of the women spoke. Kate was thinking deeply. Nor, from her expression, would it have been possible to have guessed the trend of her thoughts.

Helen, watching her, was far more expressive. She was thinking of her sister's admiration for the officer. She was speculating as to what might happen with Fyles stationed here in Rocky Springs. Would her beautiful sister finally yield to his very evident admiration, or would she still keep that barrier of aloofness against him? She wondered. And, wondering, there came the memory of what Fyles's coming would mean to Charlie Bryant.

To her mind there was no doubt but that the law would quickly direct its energies against him. But she was also wondering what would happen to him should time, and a man's persistence, finally succeed in breaking down the barrier Kate had set up against the officer. Quite suddenly this belated news assumed proportions far more significant than the coming of Big Brother Bill.

Her tongue could not remain silent for long, however. Something of her doubt had to find an outlet.

"I knew it would come sooner or later," she declared hopelessly.

She glanced quickly at Charlie, across her sister, beside whom he was walking. The man was staring out down at the village with gloomy eyes. She read into his expression a great dread of this officer's coming to Rocky Springs. She knew she was witnessing the outward signs of a guilty conscience. Suddenly she made up her mind.

"What—ever is to be done?" she cried, half eagerly, half fearfully. "Say, I just can't bear to think of it. All these men, men we've known, men we've got accustomed to, even—men we like, to be herded to the penitentiary. It's awful. There's some I shouldn't be sorry to see put away. They're scallywags, anyway. They aren't clean, and they chew tobacco, and—and curse like railroaders. But they aren't all like—that—are they, Kate?" She paused. Then, in a desperate appeal, "Kate, I'd fire your two boys, Nick and Pete. They're mixed up in whisky-running, I know. When Stanley Fyles gets around they'll be corralled, sure, and I'd hate him to think we employed such men. Don't you think that, Charlie?" she demanded, turning sharply and looking into the man's serious face.

Then, quite suddenly, she changed her tone and relapsed into her less responsible manner, and laughed as though something humorous had presented itself to her cheerful fancy.

"Guess I'd have to laugh seeing those two boys doing the chores around a penitentiary for—five years. They'd be cleaner then. Guess they get bathed once a week. Then the funny striped clothes they wear. Can't you see Nick, with his long black hair all cut short, and his vulture neck sticking out of the top end of his clothes, like—like a thread of sewing cotton in a darning needle? Wouldn't he look queer? And the work, too! Say, it would just break his heart. My, but they get most killed by the warders. And then for drink. Five years without tasting a drop of liquor. No—they'd go mad. Anybody would. And all for the sake of making a few odd dollars against the law. I wouldn't do it. I wouldn't do it, not if I'd got to starve—else."

The man made no answer. His eyes remained upon the village below, and their expression had become lost to the anxious Helen. She was talking at him. But she was thinking not of him so much as her sister. She knew how much it would mean to Kate if Charlie Bryant were brought into direct conflict with the police. So she was offering her warning.

Kate turned to her quietly. She ignored the reference to her hired men. She knew at whom her sister's remarks were directed. She shook her head.

"Why worry about things, Sis?" she said, in her deliberate fashion. "Lawbreakers need to be cleverer folks than those who live within the law. I guess there won't be much whisky run into Rocky Springs with Fyles around, and the police can do nothing unless they catch the boys at it. You're too nervous about things." She laughed quietly. "Why, the sight of a red coat scares you worse than getting chased by a mouse."

The sound of Kate's voice seemed to rouse Charlie from his gloomy contemplation of the village. He turned his eyes on the woman at his side—and encountered the half-satirical smile of hers—which were as dark as his own.

"Maybe Helen's right, though," he said. "Maybe you'd do well to fire your boys." He spoke deliberately, but with a shade of anxiety in his voice. "They're known whisky-runners."

Kate drew Helen to her side as though for moral support. "And what of the other folks who are known—or believed—to be whisky-runners—with whom we associate. Are they to be turned down, too? No, Charlie," she went on determinedly, "I stand by my boys. I'll stand by my friends, too. Maybe they'll need all the help I can give them. Then it's up to me to give it them. Fyles must do his duty as he sees it. Our duty is by our friends here, in Rocky Springs. Whatever happens in the crusade against this place, I am against Fyles. I'm only a woman, and, maybe, women don't count much with the police," she said, with a confident smile, "but such as I am, I am loyal to all those who have helped me in my life here in Rocky Springs, and to my—friends."

The man drew a deep breath. Nor was it easy to fathom its meaning.

Helen, eyeing her well-loved sister, could have thrown her young arms about her neck in enthusiasm. This was the bold sister whom she had so willingly followed to the western wilds. This was the spirit she had deplored the waning of. All her apprehensions for Charlie Bryant vanished, merged in a newly awakened confidence, since her brave sister was ready to help and defend him.

She felt that Fyles's coming to Rocky Springs was no longer to be feared. Only was it a source of excitement and interest. She felt that though, perhaps, he might never have met his match during the long years of his duties as a police officer, he had yet to pit himself against Rocky Springs—with her wonderful sister living in the village.



CHAPTER VIII

THE SOUL-SAVERS

Helen parted from her sister at the little old Meeting House. But first she characteristically admonished her for offering herself a sacrifice on the altar of the moral welfare of a village which reveled in every form of iniquity within its reach. Furthermore, she threw in a brief homily on the subject of the outrageous absurdity of turning herself into a sort of "hired woman" in the interests of a sepulcher whose whitewash was so obviously besmirched.

With the departure of the easy-going Kate, Charlie Bryant suddenly awoke to the claims of the work at his ranch. He must return at once, or disaster would surely follow.

Helen smiled at his sudden access of zeal, and welcomed his going without protest. Truth to tell, she never failed to experience a measure of relief at the avoidance of being alone with him.

Left to herself she moved on down toward the village without haste. Her enthusiasm for the new church meeting at the house of Mrs. John Day, who was the leading woman in the village, and, incidentally, the wife of its chief citizen, who also owned a small lumber yard, was of a lukewarm character. She had much more interest in the building itself, and the motley collection of individuals in whose hands its practical construction lay.

She possessed none of her sister's interest in Rocky Springs. Her humor denied her serious contemplation of anything in it but the opposite sex. And even here it frequently trapped her into pitfalls which demanded the utmost exercise of her ready wit to extricate her from. No, serious contemplation of her surroundings would have certainly bored her, had it been possible to shadow her sunny nature. Fortunately, the latter was beyond the reach of the sordid life in the midst of which she found herself, and she never failed to laugh her merry way to those plains of delight belonging to an essentially happy disposition.

As she walked down the narrow trail, with the depths of green woods lining it upon either hand, she remembered how beautiful the valley really was. Of course, it was beautiful. She knew it. Was she not always being told it? She was never allowed to forget it. Sometimes she wished she could.

Down the trail a perfect vista of riotous foliage opened out before her eyes. There, too, in the distance, peeping through the trees, were scattered profiles of oddly designed houses, possessing a wonderful picturesqueness to which they had no real claims. They borrowed their beauty from the wealth of the valley, she told herself. Like the people who lived in them, they had no claims to anything bordering on the refinements or virtues of life. No, they were mockeries, just as was the pretense of virtue which inspired the building of the new church by a gathering of men and women, who, if they had their deserts, would be attending divine service within the four walls of the penitentiary.

She laughed. Really it was absurdly laughable. Life in this wonderful valley was something in the nature of a tragic farce. The worst thing was that the farce of it all could only be detected by the looker-on. There was no real farce in these people, only tragedy—a very painful and hideous tragedy.

On her way down she passed the great pine which for years had served as a beacon marking the village. It was higher up on the slope of the valley, but its vast trunk and towering crest would not be denied.

Helen gazed up at it, wondering, as many times she had gazed and wondered before. It was a marvelous survival of primaeval life. It was so vast, so forbidding. Its torn crown, so sparse and weary looking, its barren trunk, too, dark and forbidding against the dwarfed surroundings of green, were they not a fit beacon for the village below? It suggested to her imagination a giant, mouldering skeleton of some dreadfully evil creature. How could virtue maintain in its vicinity?

She laughed again as she thought. She knew there was some weird old legend associated with it, some old Indian folklore. But that left no impression of awe upon her laughter-loving nature.

Farther on the new church came into view. It was in the course of construction, and at once her attention became absorbed. Here was a scene which thoroughly appealed to her. Here was movement, and—life. Here was food for her most appreciative observation.

It was a Church. Not a Meeting House. Not even a Chapel. She felt quite sure, had the villagers had their way, it would have been called a Cathedral. There was nothing half-hearted about these people. They recognized the necessity of giving their souls a lift up, with a view to an after life, and they meant to do it thoroughly.

They had no intention of mending their ways. They had no thought of abandoning any of their pursuits or pleasures, be they never so deplorable. But they felt that something had better be done toward assurance of their futures. A Meeting House suggested something too inadequate to meet their special case. It was right enough as far as it went, but it didn't go far enough. They realized the journey might be very long and the ultimate destination uncertain. A Chapel had its claims in their minds, but Church seemed much stronger, bigger, more powerful to help them in those realms of darkness to which they must all eventually descend. Of course, Cathedral would have been the thing. With a cathedral in Rocky Springs they would have felt certain of their hereafter. But the difficulties of laying hands on a bishop, and claiming him for their own, seemed too overwhelming. So they accepted Church as being the best they could do under the circumstances.

Quite a number of men were standing idly around the structure, watching others at work. It was a weakness of the citizens of Rocky Springs to watch others work. They had no desire to help. They rarely were beset with any desire to help anybody. They simply clustered together in small groups, chewing tobacco, or smoking, and, to a man, their hands were indolently thrust into the tops of their trousers, which, in every case, were girdled with a well-laden ammunition belt, from which was suspended at least one considerable revolver.

There was no doubt in Helen's mind but that these weapons were loaded in every chamber, and the thought set her merry eyes dancing again.

These men wanted a church, and were there to see they had it. Woe betide—but, was there ever such a gathering of unclean, unholy humanity? She thought not.

Helen knew that every man and woman in the village had had some voice in the erection of the new church. There was not a citizen—they all possessed the courtesy title of "citizens"—in Rocky Springs, who had not contributed something toward it. Those who had wherewithal to give in money or kind, had given. Those who had nothing else to give gave their labor. She guessed the present onlookers had already done their share of giving, and were now there to see that their less fortunate brethren did not attempt to shirk their responsibilities.

For a moment, as the girl drew near, she abandoned her study of the men for a rapid survey of the building itself, and, in a way, it held her flattering attention. As yet there was no roof on it, but the walls were up, and the picturesqueness of the design of the building was fully apparent. Then she remembered that Charlie Bryant had designed the building, and somehow the thought lessened her interest.

The whole thing was constructed of lateral, raw pine logs, carefully dovetailed, with the ends protruding at the angles. There was no great originality of design, merely the delightful picturesqueness which unstripped logs never fail to yield. She knew that every detail of the building was to be carried out in the same way. The roof, the spire, the porches, even the fence which was ultimately to enclose the churchyard.

Then the inside was to be lined throughout with polished red pine. There was not a brick or stone to be used in the whole construction, except in the granite foundations, which did not appear above ground. The lumber was hewn in the valley and milled in John Day's yard. The entire labor of hauling and building was to be done by the citizens of Rocky Springs. The draperies, necessary for the interior, would be made by the busy needles of the women of the village, and the materials would be supplied by Billy Unguin, the dry goods storekeeper. As for the stipend of the officiating parson, that would be scrambled together in cash and kind from similar sources.

The church was to be a monument, a tribute to a holy zeal, which the methods of life in Rocky Springs denied. Its erection was an attempt to steal absolution for the sins of its citizens. It was the pouring of a flood of oil upon the turbulent waters of an after life which Rocky Springs knew was waiting to engulf its little craft laden with tattered souls. It was a practical bribe to the Deity its people had so long outraged, were still outraging, and had every intention of continuing to outrage.

Helen's merry eyes glanced from group to group of the men, until they finally came to rest upon an individual standing apart from the rest.

She walked on toward him.

He was a forbidding-looking creature, with a hard face, divided in its expression between evil thoughts and a malicious humor. His general appearance was much that of the rest of the men, with the exception that he made no display of offensive weapons. It was not this, however, that drew Helen in his direction, for she well enough knew that, in fact, he was a perfect gunpark of concealed firearms. She liked him because he never failed to amuse her.

"Good morning, Dirty," she greeted him cheerfully, as she came up, smiling into his bearded face.

Dirty O'Brien turned. In a moment his wicked eyes were smiling. With an adept twist of the tongue his chew of tobacco ceased to bulge one cheek, and promptly distended the other.

"Howdy," he retorted, with as much amiability as it was possible for him to display.

The girl nodded in the direction of the other onlookers.

"It's wonderful the interest you all take in the building of this church."

"Int'rest?" The man's eyes opened wide. Then a gleam of scorn replaced the surprise in them. "Guess you'd be mighty int'rested if you was sittin' on a roof with the house afire under you, an' you just got a peek of a ladder wagon comin' along, an' was guessin' if it 'ud get around in time."

Helen's eyes twinkled.

"I s'pose I should," she admitted.

"S'pose nuthin'." The saloonkeeper laughed a short, hard laugh. "It's dead sure. But most of them boys are feelin' mighty good. You see, the ladders mostly fixed for 'em. I'd say they reckon that fire's as good as out."

The interest of the onlookers was purely passive. They displayed none of the enthusiasm one might have expected in men who considered that the safety of their souls was assured. Helen remarked upon the fact.

"Their enthusiasm's wonderful," she declared, with a satirical laugh. "Do you think they'll ever be able to use swear words again?"

Dirty O'Brien grinned till his discolored teeth parted the hair upon his face.

"Say, I don't reckon to set myself up as a prophet at most things," he replied, "but I'd like to say right here, the fixin' of that all-fired chu'ch is jest about the limit fer the morals of this doggone city. Standin' right here I seem to sort o' see a vision o' things comin' on like a pernicious fever. I seem to see all them boys—good boys, mind you, as far as they go—only they don't travel more'n 'bout an inch—lyin', an' slanderin', an' thievin', an' shootin', an'—an' committin' every blamed sin ever invented since Pharo's daughter got busy makin' up fairy yarns 'bout them bulrushes——"

"I don't think you ought to talk like that," Helen protested hastily. "There's no necessity to make——"

But Dirty O'Brien was not to be denied. He promptly cut her short without the least scruple.

"No necessity?" he cried, with a sarcasm that left the girl speechless. "How in hell would you have me talk standin' around a swell chu'ch like that? I tell you what, Miss Helen, you ain't got this thing right. Within a month this durned city'll all be that mussed up with itself an' religion, the folks'll grow a crop o' wings enough to stock a chicken farm, an' the boys'll get scratchin' around for worms, same as any other feathered fowl. They'll get that out o' hand with their own glory, they'll get shootin' up creation in the name of religion by way o' pastime, and robbin' the stages an' smugglin' liquor fer the fun o' gettin' around this blamed church an' braggin' of it to the parson. Say, if I know anything o' the boys, in a week they'll be shootin' craps with the parson fer his wages, an', in a month, they'll set up tables around in the body o' the chu'ch so they ken play 'draw' while the old man argues the shortest cut to everlastin' glory. You ain't got the boys in this city right, miss. Indeed, you ain't. Chu'ch? Why they got as much notion how to act around a chu'ch as an unborn babe has of shellin' peanuts. Folks needs eddicatin' to a chu'ch like that. Eddicatin'? An' that's a word as ain't a cuss word, and as the boys of this yer city ain't wise to."

"It seems rather hopeless, doesn't it?" said Helen, stifling a violent inclination to laugh outright.

Dirty O'Brien was less scrupulous. He laughed with a vicious snort.

"Hopeless?—well, say, hopeless ain't a circumstance. Guess you've never seen a 'Jonah-man' buckin' a faro bank run by a Chinaman sharp?"

Helen shook her head while the saloonkeeper spat out his chew of tobacco with all the violence of his outraged feelings.

"He surely is a gilt-edged winner beside it," he finally admitted impressively, before clipping off a fresh chew from his plug with his strong teeth.

Helen turned away, partly to hide the laugh that would no longer be denied, and partly to watch the approach of a team of horses hauling a load of logs. In a moment swift anger shone in her pretty eyes.

"Why!" she cried, pointing at them. "Look, Dirty! That's our team; and Pete Clancy is driving it."

The man followed the direction in which she was pointing.

"Sure," he agreed indifferently.

"Sure? Of course it's sure," retorted Helen sharply; "but what—what—impertinence!"

Dirty O'Brien saw nothing remarkable in the matter, and his face displayed a waning interest.

"Don't he most gener'ly drive your team?" he inquired without enthusiasm.

"Of course he does. But he's s'posed to be right out in the hay sloughs—cutting. I heard Kate tell him this morning."

O'Brien's eyes twinkled, and a deep chuckle came from somewhere in the depths of his beard.

"Ken you beat it?" he inquired, with cordial appreciation. "Do you get his play?"

"Play?" The girl turned a pair of angry, bewildered eyes upon her companion. "Impertinence!"

The man nodded significantly.

"Sure. Them two scallywags of yours ain't got nothin' to give to the building of the chu'ch. Which means they'll need to get busy workin' on it. Guess work never did come welcome to Mister Peter Clancy and Nick. They hate work worse'n washin'—an' that's some. Guess they borrowed your team to do a bit o' haulin', which—kind o' squares their account. They're bright boys."

"Bright? They're impertinent rascals and—and—oh!"

Helen's exasperation left her almost speechless.

"Which is mighty nigh a compliment to them," observed the man.

But Helen's sense of humor utterly failed her now.

"It's—too bad, Dirty," she cried. "And poor Kate thinks they're out cutting our winter hay. I begged of her only this morning to 'fire' them both. I'm—I'm sure they're going to get us into trouble when—when the police come here. I hate the sight of them both. Last time Pete got drunk he—he very nearly asked me to marry him. I believe he would have, only I had a bucket of boiling water in my hand."

Again came the man's curious chuckle.

"It won't be you folks they get into trouble," he declared enigmatically. "An' I guess it ain't goin' to be 'emselves, neither. But when the p'lice get hot after 'em, why, they'll shift the scent—sure."

Helen's eyes had suddenly become anxious.

"You mean—Charlie Bryant," she half whispered.

The man nodded.

"Sure. An' anybody else, so—they get clear." O'Brien's eyes hardened as they contemplated the distant teamster. "Say," he went on, after a brief pause, "there are some low-down bums in this city. There's Shorty Solon, the Jew boy. He's wanted across the border fer shootin' up a bank manager, and gettin' off with the cash. Ther's Crank Heufer, the squarehead stage robber, shot up more folks, women, too, in Montana than 'ud populate a full-sized city. Ther's Kid Blaney, the faro sharp, who broke penitentiary in Dakota twelve months back. Ther's Macaddo, the train 'hold-up,' mighty badly wanted in Minnesota. Ther's Stormy Longton, full of scalps to his gun, a bad man by nature. Ther's Holy Dick, over there," he went on, pointing at a gray-bearded, mild-looking man, sitting on a log beside a small group of lounging spectators. "He owes the States Government seven good years for robbing a church. Ther's Danny Jarvis and Fighting Mike, both of 'em dodgin' the law, an' would shoot their own fathers up fer fi' cents. It's a dandy tally of crooks, but they ain't a circumstance beside them two boys of yours. They're bred bad 'uns, an' they couldn't play even the crook's game right. I'd sure say they'd be a fortune to Fyles, when he gets busy cleaning up this place. They'd give Satan away if they see things gettin' busy their way."

The anxiety deepened in Helen's eyes as the man denounced the two men who were her sister's hired help. She knew that all he said of them was true. She had known it for months. Now she was thinking of Charlie Bryant and Kate. If Fyles ever got hold of Charlie it would break poor Kate's heart.

"You think they'd give—any one away?"

The man shook his head.

"I don't think. Guess I know." Then, after a pause, he went on, speaking rapidly and earnestly. "See here, Miss Helen, I don't hold no brief fer nobody but myself, an' I guess that brief needs a hell of a piece of studyin' right. There's things in it I don't need to shout about, and anyway I don't fancy Fyles's long nose smudging the ink on it. You an' Miss Kate are jest about two o' the most wholesome bits o' women in this township, an' there ain't many of us as wouldn't fix ourselves up clean an' neat to pay our respec's to either of you. Wal, Miss Kate's got a hell of a notion for that drunken bum, Charlie Bryant. That bein' so, tell her to keep a swift eye on her two boys. They're in with him, sure, an' they'll put him away if it suits 'em. Savee? Tell her I said so—since Fyles is goin' to butt in around here. I don't want to see Charlie Bryant in a stripe soot, penitentiary way. I need him. An' I need the liquor he runs."

The man turned away abruptly. He had broken the unwritten law of Rocky Springs, where it was understood that no man spoke of another man's past, or questioned his present doings, or even admitted knowledge of them. But like all the rest of the male portion of Rocky Springs, he possessed a soft spot in his vicious heart for the two sisters, who, in the mire of iniquity which flooded the township, contrived a clean, wholesome living out of the soil, and were womanly enough to find interest, and even pleasure, in their sordid surroundings. Now, he hurried off down to his saloon, much in the manner of a man who fears the consequences of feelings which have been allowed to run away with him.

Left to herself, Helen only remained long enough to pass a few cheery greetings with the rest of the onlookers; then she, too, took her departure.

For some moments she certainly was troubled by the direct warning of a man like Dirty O'Brien. With all the many criminal attainments of the other citizens of Rocky Springs, she knew him to be the shrewdest man in the place. A warning from him was more than significant. What should she do? Tell her sister? Certainly she would do that, but she felt it to be well-nigh useless. Kate was the gentlest soul in the world. She was the essence of kindliness, of sympathy, of loyalty to her friends, but she was determined to a degree. She saw always with her own eyes, and would go the way she saw.

Had she not warned her herself before? Had she not endeavored to persuade her a dozen times? It was all quite useless. Kate was something of an enigma, a contradiction. For all her gentleness Helen knew she could be as hard as iron.

Finally, with a sigh, she dismissed the matter from her mind until such time as opportunity served. Meanwhile she must put in an appearance at Mrs. John Day's house. Mrs. John Day was the social pivot of Rocky Springs, and, to disobey her summons, Helen knew would be to risk a displeasure which would find reflection in every woman in the place.

That was a catastrophe she had no desire to face. It was enough for her to remember that she had imprisoned herself in such a place. She had no desire to earn the ill-will of the wardresses.

She laughed to herself. But she really felt that it was very dreadful that her life must be passed among these people. She wanted to be free—to live all these good years of her life. She wanted to attend parties, and—and dances among those people amid whom she had been brought up. She craved for the society of cultured folks—of men. Yes, she admitted it, she wanted all those things which make a young girl's life enjoyable—theatres, dances, skating, hockey and—and, yes, flirtations. Instead of those things what had she—what was she? That was it. What was she? She had been planted in the furrows of life a decorative flower, and some terrible botanical disaster had brought her up a—cabbage.

She laughed outright, and in the midst of her laugh, looking out across the valley, she beheld her sister leaving the Meeting House, which stood almost in the shadow of the great pine, far up on the distant slope.

Her laugh sobered. Her thoughts passed from herself to Kate with a feeling which was almost resentment. Her high-spirited, adventure-loving, handsome sister. What of her? It was terrible. So full of promise, so full of possibilities. Look at her. She was clad in a big gingham apron. No doubt her beautiful, artistic hands were all messed up with the stains of scrubbing out a Meeting House, which, in turn, right back to the miserable Indian days, had served the purposes of saloon, a trader's store, the home of a bloodthirsty badman, and before that goodness knows what. Now it was a house of worship for people, beside whom the scum of the earth was as the froth of whipped cream. It was—outrageous. It was so terrible to her that she felt as if she must cry, or—or laugh.

The issue remained in doubt for some moments. Then, just as she reached the pretentious portals of Mrs. John Day's home, her real nature asserted itself, and a radiant smile lit her pretty face as she passed within.



CHAPTER IX

THE "STRAY"-HUNTER

The real man is nearest the surface after a long period of idle solitude.

So it was with Stanley Fyles, riding over the even, sandy trail of the prairies which stretched away south of the Assiniboine River. His sunburnt face was sternly reposeful, and in his usually keen gray eyes was that open staring light which belongs to the man who gropes his way over Nature's trackless wastes, and whose mind is ever asking the question of direction. But there was no question of such a nature in his mind now. His look was the look of habit, when the call of the trail is heard.

He sat his horse with the easy grace of a man whose life is mostly spent in the saddle. His loose shoulders and powerful frame swayed with that magical rhythm which gives most ease to both horse and rider. His was the seat of a horseman whose poise is the poise of perfect balance rather than the set attitude of the riding school.

The bit hung lightly in the horse's mouth, but lightly as the reins were held in the man's hand there was a firmness and decision in the feeling of them that communicated the necessary confidence between horse and rider.

Stanley Fyles was as nearly a perfect horseman as the prairie could produce.

Just now the man beneath the officer's habit was revealed. His military training was set aside, perhaps all thought of it had been left behind with his uniform, and just the "man" was reassumed with the simple prairie kit he had adopted for the work in hand.

To look at him now he might have been a ranch hand out on the work of the spring round-up. He was dressed in plain leather chapps over his black cloth riding breeches, and, from his waist up, his clothing was a gray flannel shirt, over which he wore an open waistcoat of ordinary civilian make. About his neck was tied a silk handkerchief of modest hue, and about his waist was strapped a revolver belt. The only visible detail that could have marked him as a police officer was the glimpse of military spurs beneath his chapps.

His thoughts and feelings as he covered the dreary miles of grass were of a conflicting nature, and, roaming at will, they centered, as thoughts so roaming will center, chiefly upon those things which concerned his most cherished ambitions.

At first a feeling of something bordering on anxious resentment pretty fully occupied him. There was still in his mind the memory of an interview he had had with his immediate superior, Superintendent Jason, just before the time of his setting out. It had been an uncomfortable half-hour spent listening to the sharp criticisms of his chief, whose mind was saturated with the spirit of his official capacity, almost to the exclusion of common sense.

Superintendent Jason was still angry at the manner in which the great whisky-running coup had been effected, and of the manner in which the perpetrators of it had slipped through the official fingers. He blamed everybody, and particularly Inspector Fyles, in whose hands the case had been placed.

Nor had he been wholly appeased by the inspector's final offer. Goaded by the merciless pin-prick of his superior's tongue, Fyles had finally offered to set out for Rocky Springs, the place, both were fully agreed, whence the trouble emanated, and bring all those concerned in the smuggling to book.

At first Jason had been inclined to sneer, nor was it until Fyles unfolded something of his scheme that he began to take it seriously. Finally, however, the younger man had had his way, and the necessary permission was granted. Then the superintendent dealt with the matter as the cold discipline of police methods demanded.

Fyles remembered his words well. They meant far more to him than they expressed. They were full of a cold threat, which, to a man of his experience, could not be mistaken.

The picture remained in his mind for many a long day. It was doubtful if he would ever forget it. It was a moment of crisis in his official life, a crisis when it became necessary to back himself against all odds—or ultimately sacrifice his position.

He was standing beside the superintendent, and both men were bending over one of those secret official charts of the district surrounding Rocky Springs. They were alone in Jason's bare, even mean office. Fyles's long, firm forefinger was pointing along a trail, and his sharp, incisive words were explaining something of his convictions as his finger moved. The other was listening without interruption. At last, as the quiet, confident tones ceased, the superintendent straightened himself up, and his small, quick-moving, dark eyes shot their gleam of cold authority into his companion's.

"It's up to you," he said, with a callous upraising of his shoulders. "You've talked a good deal to me here, and you've made your talk sound right. But talk doesn't put these men in the penitentiary. You've made a mess of this job so far. Guess it's up to you to make good. You've got your chance now. See you don't miss it. The authorities don't stand for two mistakes on one job, not even when they're made by Inspector Fyles. You get me? You've got to make good."

Fyles left the office fully aware that sentence had been passed on him, just as surely as though he had stood before the Commissioner, a prisoner.

Thus, at the outset of his journey, his feelings had been scarcely pleasant, but, as the distance between him and headquarters increased, his confidence and sense of responsibility returned, and the shadow of threat retreated into the background. His plans were carefully laid, and all the support he could need was arranged for. This time the work before him was no mere capture of whisky-runners, but to make all whisky-running, as associated with Rocky Springs, impossible, and to break up the gang who had for so long defied the law. Yes, he felt confident in the result, and, as the long miles were put behind him, his thoughts wandered into more pleasant channels.

Rocky Springs certainly offered him inducement. And curiously enough he found himself wondering how much he was influenced by that inducement in accepting the odds against him in cleaning up the place, and dusting the cobwebs of crime from its corners.

Kate Seton. He had not seen her for something running into weeks. The thought that he was to renew an acquaintance, which, though almost slight, still had extraordinary power to hold him, was a delightful one. Sometimes he had found himself wondering at the phenomenon of her attraction for him. But he was incapable of analyzing his feelings closely. His life had been spent on these fringes of civilization so long, and the generality of the women he had come into contact with had been so much a part of the life of the country, that their appeal had been weakened almost to the vanishing point.

Then here, in Rocky Springs, where he might reasonably expect to find only the dregs of society, he suddenly discovered a woman obviously belonging to an utterly different and more cultured life. A woman of uncommon beauty and distinction; a woman, who, to his mind, fulfilled some essentially mannish ideal, an ideal that, in idle moments, had stolen in upon a wholly reposeful mind. A woman who——

But the thread of his pleasant reflections was suddenly broken, and his mechanically watchful eyes warned him that a horseman was riding along the trail ahead of him, and that he was rapidly overtaking this stranger.

In a moment all other interests were forgotten. To the solitary rider of the plains a fellow-creature ever becomes a matter of considerable moment. In Fyles's case he possessed the added interest of a possible giver of information.

As he gently urged his horse to lengthen its stride, his keen eyes took in the details of the man's figure, and the points of the horse he was riding. The man was of unusual stature, so unusual, in fact, that his horse, although a big raking creature, became dwarfed under him. Even from that distance the officer obtained a suggestion of fair hair beneath the brim of the prairie hat, which was tilted forward at an unusual angle. The great square shoulders of the stranger were clad in a tweed jacket, and, from what he could make out, he wore no chapps.

Just for a moment Fyles guessed he might be some farmer, and the tweed jacket suggested he was out to pay a visit to friends. Then, quite abruptly, he changed his mind, and further increased his pace. He had detected the city-fashioned top-boots the man was wearing.

Without further speculation he pressed on to overtake the stranger, whom, presently, he saw turn round and look back. Evidently he had become aware of the approach. Equally evidently he either welcomed or resented the intrusion upon his solitude. For he reined in his horse, and waited for the officer to come up.

The greeting between the men was widely different. The stranger's face was abeam with smiling good nature. His big blue eyes were wide with frank welcome.

"I've been just bursting with a painful longing for the sight of a living man with two arms and two legs, and anything else that goes to make up a human companion," he said delightedly. "Say, how far do you guess a fellow could ride by himself without needing to be sent into a home to be looked after?"

Fyles's manner was more guarded. The police officer was uppermost in him now, but he smiled a certain cordiality at the other's frankly unconventional greeting.

"That mostly depends on how many things there are chasing around in his brain-box to keep the works busy," he said gently.

The stranger's smile broadened into a laugh.

"That don't offer much hope," he replied dryly. "I've been riding around this eternal grass for nigh a week. God knows where I haven't been during that time. Nobody ever did brag about the ideas I've got in my head, not even my mother, and any I have got have just been chewed right up to death till there isn't a blamed thing left to chew. For the past ten miles I've been reviewing the attractions of every nursing home I've ever heard of, with a view to becoming an inmate. I think I've almost decided on one I know of in Toronto. You see there are a few human beings there."

Fyles's eyes had taken in the stranger from head to foot. Even the horse did not escape his closest attention. He recognized this man as being a stranger in the country. He was obviously direct from some eastern city, though not aggressively so. Furthermore, the beautiful chestnut horse he was riding was no prairie-bred animal, and suggested, in combination with the man's general get-up, the possession of ample means.

"A week riding about—trying to find yourself?"

Fyles's question was one of amused speculation.

"Sure," the man nodded, with a buoyant amusement in his eyes. "That, and finding some forgotten hole of a place called Rocky Springs."

Fyles lifted his reins and his horse moved on.

"We'd best ride together. I'm going to Rocky Springs, and—you've certainly hit the trail at last."

The fair-haired giant jumped at the suggestion, and even his horse seemed to welcome the companionship, for it ambled on in the friendliest manner by the side of the police horse.

"How did you manage to—lose yourself?" Fyles inquired presently. "Did you start out from Amberley?"

The stranger's look of chagrin was almost comical. He shook his head.

"That's where I ought to've started from," he said. Then he shrugged his great shoulders. "Here, I'll tell you. I come from down East, and I'm on my way to join a brother of mine at Rocky Springs. He's a rancher. Sort of artist, too. His name's Charlie Bryant. My name's Bill—Bill Bryant. Well, I ought to have got off at Black Cross, and changed trains for the Amberley branch. Instead of that I was sleeping peacefully in the car and went right on to a place called Moosemin. Well, some torn fool told me if I got off at Moosemin I would get across country to Amberley, and thus get on to the Rocky Springs road. Maybe he was right enough, if the feller getting off had got any horse sense. But I guess they forgot to hand any out my way. Anyhow, I kind of took to the idea. Guessed I'd make a break that way and get used to the country. So I just bought the best horse I could find in the town from the worst thief that ever dodged penitentiary, and since then have spent seven whole days getting on intimate terms with every blade of grass in the country, and trying to convince various settlers that I wasn't a murderer or horse thief, and didn't want to shoot 'em in their beds, but just needed food and sleep, all of which I was ready to pay for at any fancy prices they liked to ask. How I eventually got here I don't know, and haven't a desire to know, and I'll stake my oath you won't find any two people in the country with the same ideas of direction. And I want to say that I hate grass worse than poison, and as for sun it's an abomination. Horse riding's overrated, and tailors don't know a thing about making pants that are comfortable riding. I could write a book on the subject of boils and saddle chafes, and when I get off this blamed saddle I don't intend to sit down for a week. I think a rancher's life is just the dandiest thing to read about I ever knew, and beans—those things the shape of an immature egg and as hard as rocks—are most nourishing; and I don't think I shall need nourishing ever again. Also the West is the greatest country ever forgotten by God or men, but the remark applies only to its size. The best thing I know of, just now, is a full-sized human being going the same way I am."

Bill Bryant finished up with a great laugh of the happiest good nature, which quite robbed Fyles of his last shadow of aloofness. No one could have looked into the man's humorously smiling eyes, or listened to the frank admissions of his own blundering, and felt it necessary to entertain the least question as to his perfect honesty.

Fyles accepted the introduction in the spirit in which it was made.

"My name's Fyles—Stanley Fyles," he said cordially. "Glad to meet you, Mr. Bryant."

"Bill Bryant," corrected the other, grasping and wringing the policeman's proffered hand with painful cordiality. "That's a good name—Fyles," he went on, releasing the other's hand. "Suggests all sorts of things—nails, chisels—something in the hardware line. Good name for this country, too." Then his big blue eyes scanned the officer's outfit. "Rancher?" he suggested.

Fyles smiled, shaking his head.

"Hardly a—rancher," he deprecated.

"Ah. I know. Cowpuncher. You're dressed that way. I've read about 'em. Chasing cattle. Rounding 'em up. Branding, and all that sort of thing. Fine. Exciting."

Fyles shook his head again.

"My job's not just that, either," he said, his smile broadening. "You see, I just round up 'strays,' and send 'em to their right homes. I'm out after 'strays' now."

Bill nodded with ready understanding.

"I get it," he cried. "They just break out in spring, and go chasing after fancy grass. Then they get lost, or mussed up with ether cattle, and—and need sorting out. Must be a mighty lonesome job—always hunting 'strays.'"

Inspector Fyles's eyes twinkled, but his sunburned face remained serious.

"Yes, I'd say it's lonesome—at times. You see, it isn't easy locating their tracks. And when you do locate 'em maybe you've got a long piece to travel before you come up with 'em. They get mighty wild running loose that way, and, hate being rounded up. Some of 'em show fight, and things get busy. No, it's not dead easy—and it doesn't do making mistakes. Guess a mistake is liable to snuff your light out when you're up against 'strays.'"

A sudden enthusiasm lit Bill Bryant's interested eyes.

"That sounds better than ranching," he said quickly. "You see, I've lived a soft sort of life, and it kind of seems good to get upsides with things. I've got a notion that it's better to hand a feller a nasty bunch of knuckles, square on the most prominent part of his face, than taking dollars out of him to pay legal chin waggers. That's how I've always felt, but living in luxury in a city makes you act otherwise. I've quit it though, now, and, in consequence, I'm just busting to hand some fellow that bunch of knuckles." He raised one great clenched fist and examined it with a sort of mild enthusiasm. "I'm going to ranch," he went on simply, while the police officer surveyed him as he might some big, boisterous child. "My brother's got a ranch at Rocky Springs. He's done pretty well, I guess—for an artist fellow. He's making money—oh, yes, he's making good money, and seems to like the life.

"The fact is," he went on eagerly, "Charlie was a bit of a bad boy—he's a dandy good fellow, really he is; but I guess he got gay when he was an art student, and the old man got rattled over it and sent him along out here to raise cattle and wheat. Well, when dad died he left me most of his dollars. There were plenty, and it's made me feel sick he forgot Charlie's existence. So I took a big think over things. You see it makes a fellow think, when he finds himself with a lot of dollars that ought to be shared with another fellow.

"Well, I don't often think hard," he went on ingenuously. "But I did that time, and it's queer how easy it is to think right when you really try—hard. Guess you don't need to think much in your work—but maybe sometimes you'll have to, and then you'll find how easy it comes."

He turned abruptly in the saddle and looked straight into the officer's interested face. His eyes were alight, and he emitted a deep-throated guffaw.

"Say," he went on, "it came to me all of a sudden. It was in the middle of the night. I woke up thinking it. I was saying it to myself. Why not go out West? Join Charlie. Put all your money into his ranch. Turn it into a swell affair, and run it together. That way it'll seem as if you were doing it for yourself. That way Charlie'll never know you're handing him a fortune. Can you beat it?" he finished up triumphantly.

Stanley Fyles had not often met men in the course of his sordid work with whom he really wanted to shake hands. But somehow this great, soft-hearted, simple giant made him feel as he had never felt before. He abruptly thrust out a hand, forgetful of the previous handshakes he had endured, and, in a moment, it was seized in a second vice-like grip.

"It's fine," he said. Then as an afterthought: "No, you can't beat it."

The unconscious Bill beamed his satisfaction.

"That's how I thought," he said enthusiastically. "And I'll be mighty useful to him, myself, too—in a way. Don't guess I know much about wheat or cattle, but I can ride anything with hair on it, and I've never seen the feller I couldn't pound to a mush with the gloves on. That's useful, seeing Charlie's sort of small, and—and mild." Suddenly he pointed out ahead. "What's that standing right up there? See, over there. A tree—or—something."

Fyles abruptly awoke to their whereabouts. Bill Bryant was pointing at the great pine marking Rocky Springs.

"That's the landmark of Rocky Springs," he told him. This stranger had so interested and amused him that he had quite lost reckoning of the distance they had ridden together.

"I don't see any town," complained his companion.

"It's in the valley. You see, that tree is on the shoulder of the valley of Leaping Creek."

Bill's eyes widened.

"Oh, that's a valley, eh? And Charlie's ranch is down below. I see."

The man's eyes became thoughtful, and he relapsed into silence as they drew on toward the aged signpost. He was thinking—perhaps hard—of that brother whom he had not seen for years. Maybe, now that the time had come for the meeting, some feeling of nervousness was growing. Perhaps he was wondering if he would be as welcome as he hoped. Had Charlie changed much? Would his coming be deemed an impertinence? Charlie had not answered his letter. He forgot his brother had not had time to answer his impulsive epistle.

As they drew near the valley his eyes lost their enthusiastic light. His great, honest face was grave, almost to the point of anxiety.

Fyles, watching him furtively, observed every change of expression, and the meaning of each was plain enough to him. He, too, was wondering about that meeting. It would have interested him to have witnessed it. He was thinking about that brother in Rocky Springs. He knew him slightly, and knew his reputation better, and, in consequence, the two words "drunkard" and "crook" drifted through his mind, and left him regretfully wondering. Somehow he felt sorry, inexpressibly sorry, for this great big babe of a man whom he found himself unusually glad to have met.



CHAPTER X

THE BROTHERS

The valley of Leaping Creek gaped at Bill Bryant's feet and the man's ready delight bubbled over.

"Say," he demanded of his guide, "and this is where my brother's ranch is? Gee," he went on, while Fyles nodded a smiling affirmative, "it surely is the dandiest ditch this side of creation. It makes me want to holler."

As Fyles offered no further comment they rode on down the hill in silence, while Bill Bryant's shining eyes drank in the beauties which opened out in every direction.

The police officer, by virtue of his knowledge of the valley, led the way. Nor was he altogether sorry to do so. He felt that the moment for answering questions had passed. Any form of cross-examination now might lead him into imparting information that might hurt this stranger, and he had no desire to be the one to cast a shadow upon his introduction to the country he intended to make his home.

However, beyond this first expression of delight, Bill Bryant made no further attempt at speech. Once more doubt had settled upon his mind, and he was thinking—hard.

Ten minutes later the village came into view. Then it was that Bill was abruptly aroused from his somewhat troubled thought. They were just approaching the site of the new church, and sounds of activity broke the sylvan peace of the valley. But these things were of a lesser interest. A pedestrian, evidently leaving the neighborhood of the new building, was coming toward them along the trail. It was a girl—a girl clad in a smart tailored costume, which caught and held the stranger's most ardent attention.

She came on, and as they drew abreast of her, just for one brief instant the girl's smiling gray eyes were raised to the face of the stranger. The smile was probably unconscious, but it was nevertheless pronounced. In a moment, off came Bill's hat in a respectful salute, and only by the greatest effort could he refrain from a verbal greeting. Then, in another moment, as she passed like a ray of April sun, he had drawn up beside his guide.

"Say," he cried, with a deep breath of enthusiasm, "did you get that pretty girl?" Then with a burst of impetuosity: "Are they all like that in—this place? If so, I'm surely up to my neck in the valley of Leaping Creek. Who is she? How did she get here? I'll bet a thousand dollars to a bad nickel this place didn't raise her."

The officer's reply to the volley of questions came with characteristic directness.

"That's Miss Seton, Miss Helen Seton, sister of the one they call—Kate. They're sort of farmers, in a small way. Been here five years."

"Farmers?" Bill's scorn was tremendous. "Why, that girl might have stepped off Broadway, New York, yesterday. Farmers!"

"Nevertheless they are farmers," replied Fyles, "and they've been farming here five years."

"Five years! They've been here five years, and that girl—with her pretty face and dandy eyes—not married? Say, the boys of this place need seeing to. They ought to be lynched plumb out of hand."

Fyles smiled as he drew his horse up at the point where the trail merged into the main road of the village.

"Maybe it's not—their fault," he said dryly.

But Bill's indignation was sweeping him on.

"Then I'd like to know whose it is."

Fyles laughed aloud.

"Maybe she's particular. Maybe she knows them. They surely do need lynching—most of 'em—but not for that. When you know 'em better you'll understand."

He shrugged his shoulders and pointed down the trail, away from the village.

"That's your way," he went on, "along west. Just keep right along the trail for nearly half a mile till you come to a cattle track on the right, going up the hill again."

Then he shifted the direction of his pointing finger to a distant house on the hillside, which stood in full view.

"The track'll take you to that shanty there, with the veranda facing this way. That's Charlie Bryant's place, and, unless I'm mistaken, that's your brother standing right there on the veranda looking out this way. For a rancher—he don't seem busy. Guess I'm going right on down to the saloon. I'll see you again some time. So long."

The police officer swung his horse round, and set off at a sharp canter before Bill could give expression to any of the dozen questions which leaped to his lips. The truth was Fyles had anticipated them, and wished to avoid them.

* * * * *

Charlie Bryant was standing on the veranda of his little house up on the hillside. He was watching with eyes of anxious longing for the sight of a familiar figure emerging from a house, almost as diminutive as his own, standing across the river on the far side of the valley.

There was never any question as to the longing in his dark eyes when they were turned upon the house of Kate Seton, but the anxiety in them now was less understandable.

It was his almost constant habit to watch for her appearance leaving her home each morning. But to-day she had remained invisible. He wondered why. It was her custom to be abroad early, and here it was long past mid-day, and, so far, there had been no sign of her going.

He wondered was she ill. Helen had long since made her appearance. He knew well enough that the new church building, and the many other small activities of the village, usually claimed Helen's morning. That was the difference, one of the many differences between the sisters. Helen must always be a looker on at life—the village life. Kate—Kate was part of it.

He sighed, and a look of almost desperate worry crossed his dark, good-looking face. His thoughts seemed to disturb him painfully. Ever since he had heard of Inspector Fyles's coming to the village a sort of depression had settled like a cloud upon him—a depression he could not shake off. Fyles was the last man he wished to see in Rocky Springs—for several reasons.

He was reluctantly about to turn away, and pass on down to his corrals, which were situated on the slope beside the house. There was work to be done there, some repairs, which he had intended to start early that morning. They had been neglected so long, as were many things to do with his ranch.

With this intention he moved toward the end of the veranda, but his progress was abruptly arrested by the sight of two horsemen in the distance making their way down toward the village. For awhile he only caught odd glimpses of them through the trees, but at last they reached the main road of the village, and halted in full, though somewhat distant, view of his house.

In a moment the identity of one of the men became certain in his mind. In spite of the man's civilian clothing he recognized the easy poise in the saddle of Inspector Fyles. He had seen him so many times at comparatively close range that he was sure he could not be mistaken.

The sight of the police officer banished all his interest in the identity of the second horseman. A dark look of bitter, anxious resentment crept into his eyes, and all the mildness, all the gentleness vanished out of his expressive features. They had suddenly grown hard and cold. He knew that trouble was knocking at the door of Rocky Springs. He knew that his own peace of mind could never be restored so long as the shadow of Stanley Fyles hovered over the village.

Presently he saw the two horsemen part. Fyles rode on down toward the village while the other turned westwards, but the now hot eyes of the watching man followed only the figure of the unwelcome policeman until it was lost to view beyond the intervening bush.

As the officer disappeared the rancher made a gesture of fierce anger.

"Kate, Kate," he cried, raising his clenched fists as though about to strike the unconscious horseman, "if I lose you through him, I'll—I'll kill him."

Now he hurried away down to the corrals with the air of a man who is endeavoring to escape from himself. He suddenly realized the necessity of a vent for his feelings.

But his work had yet to suffer a further delay. He had scarcely reached the scene of operations when the sound of galloping hoofs caught and held his attention. He had quite forgotten the second horseman in his bitter interest in the policeman. Now he remembered that he had turned westward, which was in the direction of his ranch. The sounds were rapidly approaching up the track toward him. His eyes grew cold and almost vicious as he thought. Was this another of the police force? The force to which Fyles belonged?

He stood waiting at the head of the trail. And the look in his eyes augured ill for the welcome of the newcomer.

The sounds grew louder. Then he heard a voice, a somewhat familiar voice. It was big, and cheerful, and full of a cordial good humor.

"By Judas! he was a thief, and an outrageous robber, but you can go, my four-footed monument to a blasted rogue's perfidy. Five hundred good dollars—now, at it for a final spurt."

Charlie Bryant understood. The man was talking to his horse. Had he needed evidence it came forthwith, for, with a rush, at a headlong gallop, a horseman dashed from amid the bushes and drew up with a jolt almost on top of him.

"Charlie!"

"Bill! Good old—Bill!"

The greetings came simultaneously. The next instant Big Brother Bill flung out of the saddle, and stood wringing his brother's hand with great force.

"Gee! It's good to see you, Charlie," he cried joyously.

"Good? Why, it's great, and—and I took you for one of the damned p'lice."

Charlie's face was wreathed in such a smile of welcome and relief, that all Big Brother Bill's doubts in that direction were flung pell-mell to the winds.

Charlie caught something of the other's beaming enthusiasm.

"Why, I've been expecting you for days, old boy. Thought maybe you'd changed your mind. Say, where's your baggage? Coming on behind? You haven't lost it?" he added anxiously, as Bill's face suddenly fell.

"I forgot. Say, was there ever such a tom-fool trick?" Bill cried, with a great laugh at his own folly. "Why, I left it checked at Moosemin—without instructions."

Charlie's smiling eyes suddenly widened.

"Moosemin? What in the name of all that's——?"

"I'll have to tell you about it later," Bill broke in hastily. "I've had one awful journey. If it hadn't been for a feller I met on the road I don't know when I'd have landed here."

Charlie nodded, and the smile died out of his eyes.

"I saw him. You certainly were traveling in good company."

Bill nodded, towering like some good-natured St. Bernard over a mild-eyed water spaniel.

"Good company's a specialty with me. But I didn't come alongside any of it, since I set out to make here 'cross country from Moosemin on the advice of the only bigger fool than myself I've ever met, until I ran into him. Say, Charlie, I s'pose its necessary to have a deal of grass around to run a ranch on?"

Charlie's eyes lit with the warmest amusement. This great brother of his was the brightest landmark in his memory of the world he had said good-bye to years ago.

"You can't graze cattle on bare ground," he replied watchfully. "Why?"

Bill's shoulders went up to the accompaniment of a chuckle.

"Nothing—only I hate grass. I seem to have gone over as much grass in the last week as a boarding-house spring lamb. But for that feller, I surely guess I'd still be chasing over it, like those 'strays' he spends his life rounding-up."

A quick look of inquiry flashed in the rancher's eyes.

"Strays?" he inquired.

Bill nodded gravely. "Yes, he's something in the ranching line. Rounds up 'strays,' and herds 'em to their right homes. His name's Fyles—Stanley Fyles."

Just for an instant Charlie's face struggled with the more bitter feelings Fyles's name inspired. Then he gave way to the appeal of a sort of desperate humor, and broke into an uncontrolled fit of laughter.

Bill looked on wondering, his great blue eyes widely open. Then he caught the infection, and began to laugh, too, but without knowing why.

After some moments, however, Charlie sobered and choked back a final gurgle.

"Oh, dear!" he exclaimed. "You've done me a heap of good, Bill. That's the best laugh I've had in weeks. That fellow a rancher? Fyles—Stanley Fyles a—rancher? Well, p'raps you're right. That's his job all right—rounding up 'strays,' and herding 'em to their right homes. But the 'strays' are 'crooks,' and their homes the penitentiary. That's Inspector Stanley Fyles, of the Mounted Police, and just about the smartest man in the force. He's come out here to start his ranching operations on Rocky Springs, which has the reputation of being the busiest hive of crooks in Western Canada. You're going to see things hum, Bill—you've just got around in time."



CHAPTER XI

THE UNREGENERATE

Later in the afternoon the two brothers found themselves seated on the veranda talking together, as only devoted relationship will permit after years of separation.

They had just returned from a brief inspection of the little ranch for Bill's edification. The big man's enthusiasm had demanded immediate satisfaction. His headlong nature impelled him to the earliest possible digestion of the life he was about to enter. So he had insisted on a tour of inspection.

The inspection was of necessity brief. There was so little to be seen in the way of an outward display of the prosperity his elder brother claimed. In consequence, as it proceeded, the newcomer's spirits fell. His radiant dreams of a rancher's life tumbled about his big unfortunate head, and, for the moment, left him staggered.

His first visit was to the barn, where Kid Blaney, his brother's ranchman, was rubbing down two well saddle-marked cow-ponies, after his morning out on the fences. It was a crazy sort of a shanty, built of sod walls with a still more crazy door frame, and a thatched roof more than a foot thick. It was half a dug-out on the hillside, and suggested as much care as a hog pen. The floor was a mire of accumulations of manure and rotted bedding, and the low roof gave the place a hovelish suggestion such as Bill could never have imagined in the breezy life of a rancher, as he understood it.

There were one or two other buildings of a similar nature. One was used for a few unhealthy looking fowls; another, by the smell and noise that emanated therefrom, housed a number of pigs. Then there was a small grain storehouse. These were the buildings which comprised the ranch. They were just dotted about in the neighborhood of the house, at points most convenient for their primitive construction.

The corrals, further down the slope, offered more hope. There were three of them, all well enough built and roomy. There was one with a branding "pinch," outside which stood a small hand forge and a number of branding irons. At the sight of these things Bill's spirit improved.

When questioned as to pastures and grazing, Charlie led him along a cattle track, through the bush up the slope, to the prairie level above. Here there were three big pastures running into a hundred acres or more, all well fenced, and the wire in perfect order. Bill's improving spirits received a further fillip. The grazing, Charlie told him, lay behind these limits upon the open plains, over which the newcomer had spent so much time riding.

"You see, Bill," he said, half apologetically, "I'm only a very small rancher. The land I own is this on which the house stands, and these pastures, and another pasture or two further up the valley. For grazing, I simply rent rights from the Government. It answers well enough, and I only have to keep one regular boy in consequence. Spring and fall I hire extra hands for round-up. It pays me better that way."

Bill nodded with increasing understanding. His original dreams had received a bad jolt, but he was beginning a readjustment of focus. Besides, his simple mind was already formulating fresh plans, and he began to talk of them with that whole-hearted enthusiasm which seemed to be the foundation of his nature.

"Sure," he said cordially. "And—and you've done a big heap, Charlie. Say, how much did dad start you out with? Five thousand dollars? Yes, I remember, five thousand, and our mother gave you another two thousand five hundred. It was all she had. She'd saved it up in years. It wasn't much to turn bare land into a money-making proposition, specially when you'd had no experience. But we're going to alter all that. We're going to own our grazing, if it can be bought. Yes, sir, we're going to own a lot more, and I've got nearly one hundred thousand dollars to do it with. We're going to turn these barns into barns, and we're going to run horses as well as cattle. We're going to grow wheat, too. That's the coming game. All the boys say so down East—that is, the real bright boys. We're just going to get busy, you and me, Charlie. We're going to have a deed of partnership drawn up all square and legal, and I'm going to blow my stuff in it against what you've got already, and what you know. That's what I'm here for."

By the aid of his big voice and aggressive bulk Bill strove to conceal his obvious desire to benefit his brother under an exterior of strong business methods. And he felt the result to be all he could desire. He told himself that a man of Charlie's unbusiness-like nature was quite easy to impress. When it came to a proper understanding of business he was much his brother's superior.

Charlie, however, was in no way deceived, but such was his regard for this simple-minded creature that his protest was of the mildest.

"Of course we could do a great deal with your money, Bill, but—but it's all you've got, and——"

His protest was hastily thrust aside.

"See here, Charlie, boy, that's right up to me," Bill cried, with a buoyant laugh. "I'm out here to ranch. That's what I've come for, that's what I've worn my skin to the bone for on the most outrageously uncomfortable saddle I've ever thrown a leg over. That's why I took the trouble to keep on chasing up this place when my brain got plumb addled at the sight of so much grass. That's why I didn't go back to find the feller—and shoot him—for advising me to get off at Moosemin instead of hitting back on my tracks for the right place to change trains. You see, maybe I haven't all the horse sense in some things you have, but I've got my back teeth into the idea of this ranching racket, and my dollars are going to talk all they know. I tell you, when my mind's made up, I can't be budged an inch. It's no use your trying. I know you, Charlie. You're scared to death I'll lose my money—well, I'm ready to lose it, if things go that way. Meanwhile, I've a commercial proposition. I'm out to make good, and I'm looking for you to help me."

Charlie looked into the earnest, good-natured face with eyes that read deep down into the open heart beneath. A great regret lay behind them, a regret which made him hate and despise himself in a way he had never felt before. He was thinking whither his own follies had driven him; he was thinking of his own utter failure as a man, a strong, big-principled man. He was wondering, too, what this kindly soul would think and feel when he realized how little he was changed from the contemptible creature his father had turned out of doors, and when he finally learned of the horrors of degradation his life really concealed.