The early morning sun was streaming in through the window of the sick man’s room when Tresler at last awoke to consciousness. And, curiously enough, more than half an hour passed before Diane became aware of the change in her patient.

And yet she was wide awake too. Sleep had never been further from her eyes, and her mind never more alert. But for the first time since Tresler had been brought in wounded, his condition was no longer first in her thoughts. Something occupied her at the moment of his waking to the exclusion of all else.

The man lay like a log. His eyes were staring up at the ceiling; he made no movement, and though perfect consciousness had come to him there was no interest with it, no inquiry. He accepted his position like an infant waking from its healthy night-long slumber. Truth to tell, his weakness held him prisoner, sapping all natural inclination from mind and body. All his awakening brought him was a hazy, indifferent recollection of a bad dream; that, and a background of the events at Willow Bluff.

If the man were suffering from a bad dream, the girl’s expression suggested the terrible reality of her thought. There was something worse than horror in her eyes, in the puckering of her brows, in the nervous compression of her lips. There was a blending of terror and bewilderment in the brown depths that contemplated the wall before her, and every now and then her pretty figure moved with a palpable shudder. Her thoughts were reviewing feverishly scenes similar to those in her patient’s dream, only with her they were terrible realities which she had witnessed only a few hours before in that very room. At that moment she would have given her life to have been able to call them dreams. Her lover’s life had been attempted by the inhuman process of reopening his wound.

Should she ever forget the dreadful scene? Never! Not once, but time and again her brain pictured each detail with a distinctness that was in the nature of physical pain. From the moment she awoke, which had been unaccountable to her, to find herself still propped against the foot-rail of her bed, to the finish of the dastardly scene in the sick-room was a living nightmare. She remembered the start with which she had opened her eyes. As far as she knew she had heard nothing; nothing had disturbed her. And yet she found herself sitting bolt upright, awake, listening, intent. Then her rush to the lamp. Her guilty feelings. The unconscious stealth of her tiptoeing to the landing outside. Her horror at the discovery that her obstruction to the staircase had been removed, and the chairs, as though to mock the puerility of her scheming, set in orderly fashion, side by side against the wall to make way for the midnight intruder. The closed door of the sick-room, which yielded to her touch and revealed the apparition of her father bending over her lover, and, with no uncertainty of movement, removing the bandage from the wounded neck. The terror of it all remained. So long as she lived she could never forget one single detail of it.

Even now, though hours had passed since these things had happened, the nervousness with which she had finally approached the task of readjusting the bandage still possessed her. And even the thankfulness with which she discovered that the intended injury had been frustrated was inadequate to bring her more than a passing satisfaction. She shuddered, and nervously turned to her patient.

Then it was that she became aware of his return to life.

“Jack! Oh, thank God!” she murmured softly.

And the sound of the well-loved voice roused the patient’s interest in the things about him.

“Where am I?” he asked, in a weak whisper, turning his eyes to the face so anxiously regarding him.

But Diane’s troubles had been lifted from her shoulders for the moment and the nurse was uppermost once more. She signed to him to keep quiet while she administered the doses Doc. Osler had prepared for him. Then she answered his question.

“You are in the room adjoining mine,” she said quietly.

Her woman’s instinct warned her that no more reassuring information could be given him.

And the result justified it. He smiled faintly, and, in a few moments, his eyes closed again and he slept.

Then the girl set about her work in earnest. She hurried down-stairs and communicated the good news to Joe. She went in search of Jake, to have a man despatched for the doctor. For the time at least all her troubles were forgotten in her thankfulness at her lover’s return to life. Somehow, as she passed out of the house, the very sunlight seemed to rejoice with her; the old familiar buildings had something friendly in their bald, unyielding aspect. Even the hideous corrals looked less like the prisons they were, and the branding forges less cruel. But greatest wonder of all was the attitude of Jake when she put her request before him. The giant smiled upon her and granted it without demur. And, in her gladness, the simple child smiled back her heartfelt thanks. But her smile was short-lived, and her thanks were premature.

“I’m pretty nigh glad that feller’s mendin’,” Jake said. “Say, he’s a man, that feller.” He turned his eyes away and avoided her smiling gaze, and continued in a tone he tried to make regretful. “Guess I was gettin’ to feel mean about him. We haven’t hit it exac’ly. I allow it’s mostly temper between us. Howsum, I guess it can’t be helped now—now he’s goin’.”

“Going?” the girl inquired. But she knew he would be going, only she wondered what Jake meant.

“Sure,” the foreman said, with a sudden return to his usual manner. “Say, your father’s up against him good and hot. I’ve seen Julian Marbolt mad—madder’n hell; but I ain’t never seen him jest as mad as he is against your beau. When Tresler gits right he’s got to quit—quick. I’ve been wonderin’ what’s fixed your father like that. Guess you ain’t been crazy enough to tell him that Tresler’s been sparkin’ you?”

The girl’s smile died out, and her pretty eyes assumed a look of stony contempt as she answered with spirit. And Jake listened to her reply with a smile on his bold face that in no wise concealed his desire to hurt her.

“Whatever happens Mr. Tresler doesn’t leave our house until Doc. Osler gives the word. Perhaps it will do you good to further understand that the doctor will not give that word until I choose.”

“You’re a silly wench!” Jake exclaimed angrily. Then he became scornful. “I don’t care that much for Tresler, now.” Nevertheless he gave a vicious snap with his fingers as he flicked them in the air. “I wish him well enough. I have reason to. Let him stay as long as you can keep him. Yes, go right ahead an’ dose him, an’ physic him; an’ when he’s well he’s goin’, sure. An’ when he’s out of the way maybe you’ll see the advantage o’ marryin’ me. How’s that, heh? There, there,” he went on tauntingly, as he saw the flushing face before him, and the angry eyes, “don’t get huffed, though I don’t know but what you’re a daisy-lookin’ wench when you’re huffed. Get right ahead, milady, an’ fix the boy up. Guess it’s all you’ll ever do for him.”

Diane had fled before the last words came. She had to, or she would have struck the man. She knew, only too well, how right he was about Tresler; but this cruelty was unbearable, and she went back to the sick-room utterly bereft of the last shadow of the happiness she had left it with.

The doctor came, and brought with him a measure of comfort. He told her there was nothing to be considered now but the patient’s weakness, and the cleansing of the wound. In his abrupt manner he suggested a diet, and ordered certain physic, and finally departed, telling her that as her room adjoined her patient’s there would be no further need of sitting up at night.

And so three weeks passed; three weeks of rapid convalescence for Tresler, if they were spent very much otherwise by many of the settlers in the district. Truth to tell, it was the stormiest time that the country had ever known. The check the night-riders had received at Willow Bluff had apparently sent them crazy for revenge, which they proceeded to take in a wholly characteristic manner. Hitherto their depredations had been comparatively far apart, considerable intervals elapsing between them, but now four raids occurred one after the other. The police were utterly defied; cattle were driven off, and their defenders shot down without mercy. These monsters worked their will whithersoever they chose. The sheriff brought reinforcements up, but with no other effect than to rouse the discontent of the ranchers at their utter failure. It seemed as though the acts of these rustlers was a direct challenge to all authority. A reign of terror set in, and settlers, who had been in the country for years, declared their intention of getting out, and seeking a place where, if they had to pay more for their land, they would at least find protection for life and property.

Such was the position when Tresler found himself allowed to move about his room, and sit in a comfortable armchair in the delightful sunlight at his open window. Nor was he kept in ignorance of the doings of the raiders. Diane and he discussed them ardently. But she was careful to keep him in ignorance of everything concerning herself and her father. He knew nothing of the latter’s objection to his presence in the house, and he knew nothing of the blind man’s threats, or that fearful attack he had perpetrated in one of his fits of mad passion.

These days, so delightful to them both, so brimful of happiness for him, so fraught with such a blending of pain and sweetness for her, had stolen along almost uncounted, unheeded. But like all such overshadowed delights, their end came swiftly, ruthlessly.

The signal was given at the midday meal. The rancher, who had never mentioned Tresler’s name since that memorable night, rose from the table to retire to his room. At the door he paused and turned.

“That man, Tresler,” he said, in his smooth, even tones. “He’s well enough to go to the bunkhouse. See to it.”

And he left the girl crushed and helpless. It had come at last. She knew that she could keep her lover no longer at her side. Even Doc. Osler could not help her, and, besides, if she refused to obey, her father would not have the slightest compunction in attending to the matter in his own way.

So it was with a heavy heart she took herself up-stairs for the afternoon. This tÊte-À-tÊte had become their custom every day; she with her sewing, and the sick man luxuriating in a pipe. Tresler was still bandaged, but it was only lightly, for the wound was almost healed.

The girl took up her position as usual, and Tresler moved his chair over beside the little table she laid her work on, and sat facing her. He loved to gaze upon the sad little face. He loved to say things to her that would rouse it from its serious caste, and show him the shadows dispelled, and the pretty smile wreathing itself in their stead. And he had found it so easy too. The simplicity, the honesty, the single-mindedness of this prairie flower made her more than susceptible to girlish happiness, even amidst her troublous surroundings. But he knew that these moments were all too passing, that to make them enduring he must somehow contrive to get her away from that world of brutality to a place where she could bask, surrounded by love and the sunshine of a happy home. And during the days of his convalescence he planned and plotted for the consummation of his hopes.

But he found her more difficult to-day. The eyes were a shade more sad, and the smile would not come to banish the shadows. The sweet mouth, too, always drooping slightly at the corners, seemed to droop more than usual to-day. He tried, in vain, every topic that he thought would interest her, but at last himself began to experience the depression that seemed to weigh so desperately on her. And strangely enough this dispiriting influence conjured up in his mind a morbid memory, that until then had utterly escaped him. It was the dream he had the night before his awakening. And almost unconsciously he spoke of it.

“You remember the day I woke to find myself here, Danny?” he said. “It just occurs to me now that I wasn’t unconscious all the time before. I distinctly remember dreaming. Perhaps I was only asleep.”

The girl shook her head.

“You were more than asleep,” she said portentously.

“Anyhow, I distinctly remember a dream I had. I should say it was ‘nightmare.’ It was about your father. He’d got me by the throat, and—what’s the matter?”

Diane started, and, to Tresler’s alarm, looked like fainting; but she recovered at once.

“Nothing,” she said, “only—only I can’t bear to think of that time, and then—then—father strangling you! Don’t think of your dream. Let’s talk of something else.”

Tresler’s alarm abated at once; he laughed softly and leant forward and kissed her.

“Our future—our little home. Eh, dearest?” he suggested tenderly.

She returned his embrace and made a pitiful attempt to smile back into the eyes which looked so eagerly into hers. And now, for the first time, her lover began to understand that there really was something amiss with her. It was that look, so wistful, so appealing, that roused his apprehension. He pressed her to tell him her trouble, until, for sheer misery, she could keep it from him no longer.

“It’s nothing,” she faltered, with trembling lips.

Watching her face with a lover’s jealousy he kept silence, for he knew that her first words were only her woman’s preliminary to something she considered serious.

“Jack,” she said presently, settling all her attention upon her work, “you’ve never asked me anything about myself. Isn’t that unusual? Perhaps you are not interested, or perhaps”—her head bent lower over her work—“you, with your generous heart, are ready to take me on trust. However,” she went on, before he could interrupt her, “I intend to tell you what you refuse to ask. No,” as he leant forward and kissed her again, “now sit up and light your pipe. There are to be no interruptions like that.”

She smiled wistfully and gently pushed him back into his chair.

“Now,” she began, as he settled himself to listen, “I must go back such a long, long way. Before I was born. Father was a sea captain then. First the captain of a whaler, afterward he bought a ship of his own and traded round the East Indies. He often used to talk of those days, not because he had any desire to tell me of them, but it seemed to relieve him when he was in a bad temper. I don’t know what his trade was, but I think it was of an exciting nature. He often spoke of the risks, which, he said, were amply compensated by the money he made.” Tresler smiled gravely. “And father must have made a lot of money at that time, for he married mother, bought himself a fine house and lands just outside Kingston, in Jamaica, and, I believe, he kept a whole army of black servants. Yes, and he has told me, not once, but a hundred times, that he dates all his misfortunes from the day he married my mother, which always seems unfair to her anyway. Somehow I can never think of father as ever having been a kind man, and I’ve no doubt that poor mother had anything but an easy time of it with him. However, it is not for me to criticize.” She paused, but went on almost immediately. “Let me see, it was directly after the honeymoon that he went away on his last trading trip. He was to call at Java. Jake was his mate, you know, and they were expecting to return in six months’ time with a rich harvest of what he calls ‘Black Ivory.’ I think it was some native manufacture, because he had to call at the native villages. He told me so. But the trip was abandoned after three weeks at sea. Father was stricken down with yellow fever. And from that day to this he has never seen the light of day.”

The girl pushed her work aside and went on drearily.

“When he recovered from the fever he was brought home, as he said himself, ‘a blind hulk.’ Mother nursed him back to health and strength, but she could not restore his sight. I am telling you these things just as I have gleaned them from him at such moments as he chose to be communicative. I imagine, too, from the little things he sometimes let fall when he was angry, that all this time he lived in a state of impotent fury against all the world, against God, but particularly against the one person to whom he should have been most grateful—mother. All his friends deserted him in consequence of his bitter temper—all, that is, except Jake. At last in desperation, he conceived the idea of going to Europe. At first mother was going with him, but though he was well able to afford the additional expense he begrudged it, and, changing his mind, decided to go alone. He sold his ship, settled his affairs, and went off, and for three years he traveled round Europe, visiting every eye-doctor of note in all the big capitals. But it was all no good, and he returned even more soured than he went away. It was during his absence that I was born.”

Again Diane paused. This time it was some moments before she proceeded.

“To add to his troubles,” she at last resumed, in a low tone, “mother was seriously ill when he got back, and, the day of his return, died in his presence. After that, whatever his disposition was before, it seems to have become a thousand times worse. And when he is angry now he takes a painful delight in discussing the hatred and abhorrence all the people of Kingston held him in, and the hatred and abhorrence he returns to mankind in general. By his own accounts he must have been terrible. However, this has nothing to do with our history. Personally, I remember nothing but this ranch, but I understand that he tried to resume his old trade in the Indies. For some reason this failed him; trouble occurred, and he gave it up for good, and came out to this country and settled here. Again, to quote his words, ‘away from men and things that drove him distracted.’ That,” she finished up, “is a brief sketch of our history.”

“And just such a story as I should imagine your father had behind him. A most unhappy one,” Tresler observed quietly. But he was marveling at the innocence of this child who failed to realize the meaning of “black ivory.”

For a little while there was a silence between them, and both sat staring out of the window. At last Diane turned, and when she spoke again there was an ominous quivering of the lips.

“Jack,” she said, “I have not told you this without a purpose.”

“No, I gathered that, dear,” he returned. “And this profound purpose?” he questioned, smiling.

Her answer was a long time in coming. What she had to do was so hard.

“Father doesn’t like you,” she said at last in desperation.

Tresler put his pipe aside.

“It doesn’t seem to me he likes anybody very much, unless it’s Jake. And I wouldn’t bet a pile on the affection between them.”

“He likes Jake better than anybody else. At least he trusts him.”

“Which is a fair equivalent in his case. But what makes you think he dislikes me more than most people?”

“You remember that night in the kitchen, when you asked me to——”

“Marry? Yes. Could I ever forget it?”

Tresler had taken possession of one of the small hands lying in the girl’s lap, but she gently withdrew it.

“I was weeping, and—and you saw the bruises on my arms. Father disapproved of my talking to you——”

“Ah! I understand.” And he added, under his breath, “The brute!”

“He says I must give you up.”

Tresler was looking straight before him at the window. Now he turned slowly and faced her. His expression conveyed nothing.

“And you?”

“Oh, it is so hard!” Diane burst out, in distress. “And you make it harder. Yes,” she went on miserably, “I have to give you up. I must not marry you—dare not——”

“Dare not?”

The question came without the movement of a muscle.

“Yes, he says so. Oh, don’t you see? He is blind, and I—I am his only—oh, what am I saying?”

Tresler shook his head.

“I’m afraid you are saying a lot of—nonsense, little woman. And what is more, it is a lot of nonsense I am not going to take seriously. Do I understand that you are going to throw me over simply because he tells you to?”

“Not only because of that.”

“Who told him about us?”

“I don’t know.”

“Never mind. Perhaps I can guess. You have grown tired of me already?”

“You know I haven’t, Jack.”

Diane put out a hand and gently laid it on one of his. But his remained unresponsive. This sudden awakening from his dream of love had more than startled him. It had left him feeling resentful against somebody or something; at present he was not sure who or what. But he meant to have it out, cost what it might.

“That’s all right, then,” he said. “Now, tell me this other reason.” Suddenly he leant forward and looked down into her eyes. His hands, now thin and delicate, held hers tightly in a passionate clasp, and his face was alight with the truth and sincerity of his love. “Remember,” he said, “this is no child’s play, Danny. I am not the man to give you up easily. I am weak, I know; but I’ve still got a fight in me, and so long as I am assured of your love, I swear nothing shall part us. I love you as I have never loved anybody in my life—and I just want only you. Now tell me this other reason, dear.”

But Diane still hesitated. Her evident distress wrung her lover’s heart. He realized now that there was something very serious behind it all. He had never beheld anything so pitiful as the look with which she turned toward him, and further tried to put him off.

“Father says you are to leave this house to-day. Afterward you will be turned off the ranch. It is only through the sheriff backing the doctor’s orders that you were not turned out of here before.”

Tresler made no response for a moment. Then he burst out into a hard, mirthless laugh.

“So!” he exclaimed, his laugh dying abruptly. “Listen to me. Your father can turn me out of this house—though I’ll save him that trouble—but he can’t turn me off this ranch. My residence here is bought and paid for for three years. The agreement is signed and sealed. No, no, let him try another bluff.” Then his manner changed to one of gentle persuasion. “But you have not come to the real reason, little one. Out with it. It is a bitter plum, I can tell. Something which makes you dread not only its consequences, but—something else. Tell it me, Danny. Whatever it is you may be sure of me. My love for you is unalterable. Believe me, nothing shall come between us.”

His voice was infinitely tender, and its effect on Diane was to set two great tears rolling down her cheeks as she listened. He had driven her to a corner, and there was no escape. But even so she made one more effort to avoid her shameful disclosure.

“Will—will you not take me at my word, Jack?” she asked imploringly.

“Not in this, dearest,” he replied.

He spoke inexorably, but with such a world of love in his voice that the long-pent tears came with a rush. He let her weep. He felt it would do her good. And, after a while, when her sobs had ceased, he urged her again.

“Tell me,” he whispered.

“I——”

The man waited with wonderful patience.

“Oh, don’t—don’t make me!” she cried.

“Yes, I must.”

And at last her answer came in the faintest of whispers.

“I—I—father is—is only my legal father. He was away three years. I was born three days before he returned.”

“Well, well.” Tresler sat quite still for a moment while the simple girl sat cowering under the weight of her mother’s shame. Then he suddenly reached out and caught her in his arms. “Why, Danny,” he cried, pressing her to him, “I never felt so happy over anything in my life as the fact that Julian Marbolt is not your father.”

“But the shame of it!” cried the girl, imagining that her lover had not fully understood.

“Shame? Shame?” he cried, holding her still tighter in his arms. “Never let me hear that word on your lips again. You are the truest, sweetest, simplest child in the world. You are mine, Danny. My very own. And I tell you right here that I’ve won you and will hold you to my last dying day.”

Now she was kneeling beside him with her face pillowed on his breast, sobbing in the joy of her relief and happiness. And Tresler kissed her softly, pressing his cheek many times against the silky curls that wreathed about her head. Then, after a while, he sat looking out of the window with a hard, unyielding stare. Weak as he was, he was ready to do battle with all his might for this child nestling so trustfully in his arms.