The lamp had not been lighted in the sitting-room at Huntington’s, but the pitch log blazing in the great fireplace reddened the farthest corners of the room, and flushed the somber faces of Seth and Claire. Their habit, in these days of grief, was to sit the winter evenings through almost in silence, their self-reproaches long since spent, their hopes turned to ashes, which Claire alone tried sometimes to fan into a glow. They had eaten their supper before twilight, without speech, and then, as always, waited wearily for sleep.

“It will be three months and two weeks to-morrow,” she said, without looking away from the fire.

“Yes,” answered Huntington.

“Isn’t it possible she may have reached––”

“It’s no use, Claire, thinking such things.”

“But Pete! He hasn’t come back, and maybe that means––”

She did not even finish the sentence, which simply faded away on her lips, a useless and foolish conjecture.

Another long silence followed. Seth’s cigarette went out, and hung dead from his bearded lips, while he stared gloomily into the blaze. He sat with his back toward the front door. Claire, near a corner of the big stone chimney, leaned forward, her head inclined to one side, the cheek resting on her open hand, the elbow on 331 her knee. Her eyes, which had been lifted from their long gazing at the fire at the moment she addressed her husband, were fixed on vacancy, looking past Huntington toward the door that led out upon the veranda, where the rising wind tossed little whirls of snow and dead leaves from the flower garden. She was torturing herself with a conjured vision of a wild, high place among snowbound rocks, in the midst of which a slender figure was slowly sinking down, and a white and stricken face was turned toward her. This was the vision that had become for her the settled picture of Marion’s fate, a picture that was burned into her brain by many, many hours of imagining, day and night.

The wind was howling around the ranch house, wailing among the gables, shrieking across the chimney top. It rattled at the door, as if to fling it open with sudden violence. And what was that? A footstep on the veranda? She shivered; it was only her shaken nerves again! Then came another rattle at the door. It moved. It was flung open. And there was the figure of her dream, but strangely and fantastically clad; and with a face that glowed, and lips that were parted in a smile.

For a moment Claire did not move. Then slowly she lifted her head; her eyes grew round and staring, her mouth opened. Seth caught the look; it was one he had seen many times before.

“Claire!” he cried. “Stop that!”

His voice, perhaps, served to break the spell. Claire leaped to her feet. And the next instant there was a voice from the doorway.

“Hello!” said Marion cheerily, in a “good evening” 332 kind of tone, as if she had returned from the post-office.

Huntington bounded from his chair, and whirled around with an oath,––one oath surely that was forgiven him. But past him, with a scream dashed Claire.

“Marion!” she shrieked.

“Marion!” bellowed Seth.

And then the two women were in each other’s arms, and Seth grabbed one of Marion’s hands, and the air was filled with hysterical cries and mighty, spluttered expletives. Then silence fell, while Claire and Marion wept without restraint, and Huntington searched for his handkerchief without finding it, and strode across the room and back, pounding one clenched hand into the palm of the other. But Marion presently tore herself out of Claire’s embrace, and turned to grab an arm of Pete, who stood just outside the doorway, through which the wind unheeded was flinging snow and leaves into the room.

“Here he is!” cried Marion. “He did it!”

Claire promptly threw her arms around the Indian’s neck, or as nearly around as she could reach, and stood on tiptoe to plant a kiss on his leathery cheek. Huntington too leaped on him, seizing his shoulder and hand, and dragging him farther into the room. Then he broke away, and ran for a bottle; and the two men clicked glasses and drank in silence. And two big chairs were drawn close to the fire for Pete and Marion; and while Claire sat crying softly, and Huntington, between “damns” and “hells,” wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and Pete sat impressive, Marion quickly narrated the chief incidents of her pursuit of Haig, their long imprisonment, and the rescue.

“But Haig! Where’s he?” asked Huntington.

“He left us at the junction,” answered Marion.

On that a moment of silence fell. Something in Marion’s face told even Huntington to keep still. But Claire, seeing it, was secretly, wickedly, triumphantly glad. A very practical thought, however, came to her in time to prevent embarrassment, and Seth was sent bustling into the kitchen to relight the fire in the range. The cook had gone to bed, but Claire would get supper for them; for Pete must stay, she insisted. But at this the Indian rose, and said he must go to Haig, who had told him to hurry back for supper with him in the cottage.

“Well, then, Pete,” said Huntington from the door of the kitchen, “you’ll have another drink, anyhow. And you’ll come up to-morrow to tell us how you found them, won’t you?”

Pete promised; the whisky was solemnly drunk again; and the three others followed him to the door.

“But you must have a horse!” said Huntington.

So he jumped past him, and ran to the stable, bellowing for Williams.

“Now take off your coat, Marion!” cried Claire.

“No. Not here,” said Marion. “You’ll see why.”

They waited before the blazing log for Huntington to return, whereupon he was sent to build a fire in Marion’s room. When it was crackling finely, Marion, removed her deerskin coat and skirt. Claire stared at her, gasping; and then sank down on the bed in another fit of weeping. For Marion stood before her in rags and dirt.

“Oh, but you should have seen me the day Pete came!” cried Marion, with a pathetic little laugh. “I’ve actually got some flesh on my bones now.”

Indescribable luxuries followed: a hot bath, wonderful clean garments, and Claire’s happy fingers combing the tangles out of the tawny hair.

“But I’ll never be really and truly clean again, Claire!” cried Marion ruefully, holding out her hands.

Claire clasped them tenderly, while Marion, on a sudden thought, related to her Haig’s speech about baths; and they laughed together.

“You’ve so many things to tell me,” said Claire, with a curiosity she could not quite repress.

“Yes,” answered Marion, blushing.

It was nearly midnight when they sat down to supper, but none of them cared for time. Marion was not sleepy. She and Haig and Pete had slept well in a deserted cabin the last night of their journey, before a huge fire, in circumstances positively pleasant in comparison with what they had passed through. But she was hungry. As she never expected to be really and truly clean again, she doubted that she should ever get enough to eat. Claire did the best she could on that score, and that was something. There was chicken with cream gravy; and potatoes, baked in their skins, and seasoned with butter and salt and paprika; and three kinds of jelly to be spread on buttered toast; and angel cake. In the midst of the feast there were steps on the veranda, and a knock on the door; and Curly appeared, bearing two bottles of champagne.

“Mr. Haig says you’re all to drink Pete’s health, an’ he ought to live to be a hundred,” said Curly, grinning, 335 and gazing in wonderment at Marion, whose exploit had caused her to assume somewhat the nature of a goddess in his simple mind.

When the door had closed on Curly, Huntington stood for a moment awkwardly holding the bottles, an expression almost of consternation on his face. He had once made some remarks about Haig’s champagne. But he had the sense not to act the part of a skeleton at the feast. Pete’s health was drunk by all; and might he live to be a hundred!

In another hour Marion was in bed, in a real bed, in her own pink room, between sweet, clean sheets, and warm again at last, but shivering in sheer excess of comfort, and crying a little perhaps from overwhelming joy. For she knew in her heart––something she could not yet tell even Claire.

Bill Craven was mending a bridle by the light of a smoky lantern in the stable, when he saw a ghost. It just opened the door, and walked in, and said, “How are you, Bill?” Craven fell backward off his stool, then leaped to his feet with a yell that caused a commotion among the barn swallows under the eaves, and brought Farrish and Curly tumbling down the ladder from the loft. Thereupon discipline, for which Haig had always been rather a stickler, suffered a bad half hour. They had given him up for lost; and had found on comparing experiences that each of them had many reasons for counting that loss his own. In the days following the attempts to rescue Miss Gaylord, these three had gone about the Park with chips on their shoulders, inviting any outspoken citizen to say to them anything that was 336 not strictly proper and complimentary about Haig. So now, though the words were few after the first noisy demonstration, they were the kind of words that are worth hearing, from man to man.

Haig and Bill Craven presently compared notes in the matter of “busted” legs. Bill’s had mended much sooner than Haig’s, which was quite easily understood, considering the great difference in their circumstances. Curly had “nigh killed” the sorrels, getting the doctor for Craven, but they were all right now. “Fat and sassy,” Curly added.

“I’ll take some of that out of them, to-morrow,” said Haig. “I’ll want the sleigh, Farrish. Please look after it in the morning.”

Then, seeing their impatience, he told them of Sunnysides’ final escape, and of all the events that followed––as much as was good for them to know.

“But where’s Pete?” asked Craven.

“He went to Huntington’s with Miss Gaylord. He’ll be along soon.”

“Well, jest wait till we git our hands on that damned Indian!” cried Bill. “Eh, men?”

It was evident that there would be a considerable disturbance in the barn on Pete’s arrival.

A few minutes later Haig had his surprise. On entering the cottage he first encountered Slim Jim in the outer room. Perhaps Jim’s face turned a trifle yellower, perhaps his thin legs trembled a little under the sky-blue trousers; but that was about all, except the light that flickered an instant in his eyes.

“Glad you back!” he said simply. “Want supper?”

“Want supper! Why, you scrawny, evil-eyed heathen! Want supper! I want everything you’ve got to eat, and everything you haven’t got, and don’t you tell me there’s ’vellee lil’ either, or I’ll break every bone in your body. And be quick about it too!”

Jim hurried into the kitchen with so much of a departure from his oriental poise that the first pan he picked up fell to the floor with a clatter. That was the most eloquent testimonial he could have given, unless it was the supper that was ready for Haig in an hour––and no “velle lil” supper at that––to his participation in the general rejoicing.

Haig, meanwhile, opened the inner door, stepped into the library-bedroom, and halted dead still on the threshold. At his entrance, a tall, thin young man, with a very pale face, rose like an automaton and stared at him. It was a question which of the two was the more amazed.

“Thursby!” cried Haig, recovering the more quickly.

“Haig!”

“Where did you come from?”

“From the other side of the world. And you?”

“From the very bowels of the earth, man!”

They walked slowly toward each other until they met, and clasped hands.

“You found him?” asked Haig, searching the other’s face.

“In Singapore.”

“And then?”

“He’s dead.”

“And she?”

“I’ve sent her back to her people in Devonshire.”

Haig gripped hard the hand that was still clasped in his own, and there was a moment of silence.

“Well,” said Haig, “we’ll have a nip of whisky, and then––You’ve come back to take your ranch, of course.”

“I came back for that, but I can’t figure out that it’s mine now.”

“How’s that?” asked Haig, pouring out the drinks.

“I left three hundred head of cattle, and now I learn there are thirteen hundred head, almost.”

“Don’t let that worry you. I’ve sold enough of the increase to bring back all the money they cost me. So we’re quits.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Be sensible, Haig. First thing, why did you do it?”

“For the fun of it, partly.”

“And after that?”

“Well, your fine ranch here wasn’t making much money, and I thought you’d need a good deal, perhaps, before you got through with your––affair.”

“And yet you say we’re quits!”

“I’m satisfied.”

“But I’m not. You’ll take a half interest, and we’ll go partners.”

“No.”

“I say yes,” persisted Thursby. “But I’m forgetting to ask questions. How the devil did you get back?”

“I will a tale unfold will harrow up thy bones––and 339 the rest of it,” replied Haig, laughing. “But first: when did you arrive?”

“By the last stage in.”

“And what have you told them––my pleasant neighbors?”

“Nothing. But they have the impression that I came for the final payment on the ranch, and that I remained because you were lost in the mountains.”

“Good. Now, old man, I’ll tell you how you can repay me in full for anything you may think I’ve done for you.”

“Go on!”

“Are you ready to assume the responsibility for my acts? I mean in the matter of the land and cattle? The rest is still my affair.”

“Most certainly.”

“Well, then. I’ve very special reasons for needing peace with Huntington.”

Thursby looked at him curiously. This from Philip Haig!

“And you want me to––”

“Don’t misunderstand me. I’ve gone up there before, and I’m going again to-morrow. But I want to give Huntington a chance. So if you’ll go to his house to-morrow morning, and tell him that I’ve finished, that the ranch is not mine, and––”

“But the ranch is yours––or half yours.”

“Never mind about that now. We’ll talk it over later. Just tell Huntington that the ranch is not mine, and never has been, and––whatever else you like. Then say to him that if he still wants to fight me I’ll meet him anywhere, and we’ll settle it. In any event, 340 you will tell him, I’m coming to his place to-morrow afternoon, and I’ll have no gun.”

“I see.”

“And you’ll do it?”

“Of course. With all my heart.”

And he made a thorough job of it. He told them––Huntington, Claire and Marion––that he had been in great trouble. What that trouble was concerned nobody but himself, but it was enough to send him around the world, reckless of everything but the immediate object of his pursuit. Philip Haig, an old friend, had volunteered to look after his ranch for him, and to provide him with money when he needed it. So, if Haig had seemed too aggressive and selfish in his methods, all that he had done had been done in a spirit of––he might say a spirit that was almost quixotic. And having done all this, increasing Thursby’s holdings of cattle four times, Haig refused to accept anything for his time and labor, and insisted that their account was closed.

Marion had known nothing of all this, save for the hints she had received from Smythe, following the conversation overheard by him. Philip had told her nothing of it in recounting his adventures. With glistening eyes she looked from Claire to Huntington, where they sat open-mouthed, and was thrilled with pride and triumph. Claire at length turned, and looked at her, and smiled. As for Huntington, he was simply (as he explained afterwards, seeking to justify his ready acquiescence) flabbergasted.

“This has been a very bitter business, Thursby,” he said. “It’s cost me a lot of cattle and money, and I’ll not take back a thing I’ve said about Haig’s grabbing 341 everything in sight, and ruining his neighbors. But I will say, after what you’ve told me, that––damn it, Thursby! he is a man.”

“He’s ready to fight with you or talk with you, as you wish.”

Huntingdon eyed him suspiciously.

“Did Haig say that?” he demanded.

“He certainly did.”

“Then tell him, if he’s on the square, it’ll be talk.”

Claire, ignoring Thursby’s presence, ran and snuggled close to Seth, while he put his arm around her. But it was at Marion, to Marion, that Seth looked, seeking the approval that he had never before been able to get from her. Their eyes met, and she nodded, smiling.

“Very well!” said Thursby. “He’s coming to see you this afternoon.”

“What?” cried Huntington.

“He’s coming this afternoon. And he wished me to say explicitly that he will have no gun.”

To Huntington this seemed almost incredible. He was heartily sick of the warfare, and glad of any way out of it that would not be too humiliating to himself. But Haig was coming to him; and this meant, surely, that something had occurred to his enemy that would make the event easy for himself, if not quite free from embarrassment. He looked again at Marion; and at last, seeing her radiant countenance, he understood that this was her achievement, that it was for her Haig would be coming unarmed to the house of his bitter foe that afternoon.

“I’m ready,” he said to Thursby, with an elation he was only partly able to conceal.

Smythe was the next visitor, arriving in a state of such contrition that Marion pitied him. His jaunty air was gone. He was quite unable to respond to Marion’s gentle jesting, seeing that her cheeks were still sunken and pale, that the body whose graces he had so much admired was now palpably thin under her loose clothing. He had blamed himself bitterly for the disaster that had overtaken her, and his sufferings had been real and lasting.

“If I’d been half a man I’d never have let you go on alone that day,” he said after she had greeted him brightly, giving him both her hands.

“Oh, indeed!” retorted Marion. “And what would you have done?”

“Gone with you.”

“But I sent you back.”

“I was a fool!”

“A fool to do as I told you, Mr. Smythe?” she demanded archly.

“Yes. You didn’t know what you were doing.”

“But I did know what I was doing.”

This come with such depth of feeling that he knew he would no longer be able to bring her news of Philip Haig.

“Then I’m glad,” he said simply.

Presently she told him her story; but much was omitted, especially the keenest of her sufferings, since remorse still haunted Smythe’s solemn eyes.

“And what have you been doing?” she asked.

“Trying to read and study, but it’s been no use.”

“And you’ve lost a year in your career!”

“That’s nothing. I can make it up, if you’ve forgiven me.” She gave him her hand again.

“There’s nothing to forgive!” she answered warmly. “You’ve been a good friend to me. I owe you––more than you know––more than I can tell you––now!”

On that she rose hurriedly, and went to her room for––a handkerchief. It was quite ten minutes before she returned to finish their talk, and to tell him that he must come to see her often through the long months of winter that remained.