Jack Wade's new cabin was built much stronger and a little more elaborately than the old one. It was not at all like the old one, nor was it put up in quite the same location. It was built some twenty-five feet eastward and faced the mountain, while the old one had faced just the opposite. Besides, the new cabin had a small porch attached, while the front of the old one was plain. Wade sat upon this little gallery, pondering over the events of the past, much bewildered in mind on account of the slow progress he had made toward his desired end, toward the fulfillment of his avowed designs. He was unable to reason out many things mysterious, one being the deep friendship for him that had sprung up in the heart of that wicked old man, Peter Judson. It may have been, he thought, because of the fact that old Jim Thompson had ridden hastily up to Peter's cabin late one day and yelled to Peter that "they was now enemies forever, an' ther war would last 'twixt 'em till one or t'other was dead with their boots on," and Peter needed consolation and friendship. Old Peter, however, had replied to Jim Thompson:

"Maybe ye want a little of it right now. Ef yer do, jest git down off o' yer hoss an' I'll give ye all ye want, ye beggar."

Angered to the toes, old Jim struck his horse with the spurs and rode rapidly away toward the mountain, firing back at Peter as he went. He would, no doubt, have shot Peter in his own yard, had he not seen Tom sitting in the cabin door with a Winchester lying across his arms, and he knew only too well that the aim of the slender youth was true. He knew well that, as old Peter had said, Tom would pick him off his saddle before he could even fire at Peter. Discretion, therefore, being the better part of valor, he bridled his anger and rode away without deigning to make reply to old Peter's challenge, cursing and snorting, breathing hot revenge against his enemies.

Wade knew of these circumstances; he knew that his own folly had brought about these conditions, and it was his human duty to aid the Judsons all he could, because they had been nothing but friends to him. The gleaming dark eyes of that girl of the wilds were ever before him, he could not rid himself of their presence, try as he would. They were an everlasting companion, and he was not altogether sorry that it was so, for in his most lonely hours he looked out into the dreamy space and saw them, and they made him feel less lonely. He had spent much time with Nora, sometimes at her father's cabin, sometimes hunting over the mountain, sometimes angling in the brook, and sometimes up the country road between the two cabins. The old brindle cow had not quit getting under the wire,—at any rate, she got out very often, and always headed down the road, never toward the mountain. Probably she was a lazy cow and did not like the idea of a steep climb up the hill, though the grass was sweeter up that way. However that may be, she always went down the road. Constant companionship had drawn Jack and Nora closer together, and Wade was teaching her in such a kind way that she took no offense whatever. He brought to her new books to read, which she devoured eagerly as a child learning its letters.

When she was not busy with some domestic duties, Nora was out in some nook remote from the cabin devouring the contents of a book. She was an apt scholar and learned rapidly. She would say "ye" only when speaking in great haste; other times she said "you." In one book that she read the heroine was a country girl like herself, and would say "hit" and "ye" like she did, and she discovered in reading that she was not properly educated as to the use of language, therefore she applied herself the harder. She took special delight in this book, and read it the second time, being greatly pleased with the sweet little character, the country girl, who, before the novel closed, went off to college in the big city and, after a few years study, came home refined in manners and neat in dress. This same country girl was ever afterward her own model, because she became gentle and kind, and married the millionaire's son, to the satisfaction of all concerned. Jack Wade was in her mind's eye the very hero himself. She thought of him as a big-hearted, generously kind boy, whose sole hope was to benefit someone else, though he might be personally affected by so doing.

She thought of him as a great wise man who was spending his life out in the mountains for her special benefit. She thought of him by day, and when night came on, the hideous night of darkness, when her awakened soul longed for light, she thought of him. When her body passed into the oblivion of peaceful slumber she dreamed of him, of the man who had done so much toward enlightening her mind and soul, who had brought her out of the darkness and set her upon a high pinnacle of knowledge, where light shone in on her benighted being and she saw. He had spoken to her of God, a great God, Maker of the mighty universe, as no one had ever before spoken to her. The light shone brighter from his eyes as he talked to her about things of which she had hitherto known nothing. The song of the little bird in the tree top, the little wild bird, sounded sweeter than it was wont in times past. Their notes came clearer and had a new meaning. Her darkened soul opened wide its closed windows and the light came streaming in until she saw through different eyes. Her interest in the wild, golden-headed flowers that grew in great profusion along the ridge of the mountain grew day by day, until she felt she must plant a garden of her own somewhere near the cabin, so that she could go out and work among the flowers and talk with them. Her very soul yearned for something new, something it had not felt before.

She was kind and tender toward her big brown dog, in which she now saw a true friend. They had always been friends in a way, but that way had been to kick him and speak gruffly to him. Those things she did no more. She did not kick the old brindle cow in the flanks and say: "Saw thar, durn ye! or ye'll git yer head knock off," but the rather she pushed her gently and spoke kindly to her. "Be very careful, Brindle, don't step on my toes or turn the milk over, I am not going to hurt you." So the old brindle cow saw and knew and quit blinking her eyes when Nora was near. She formerly began blinking when she saw the girl coming out of the house with the milk pails, because she had grown to expect a crack over the solid portion of her head before the milking process began. The consequence of a life of continued abuses was that she had formed a great habit of blinking both eyes when near one of the feminine gender. Not so any more. The old cow naturally wondered at the strange, sweet change, her own life was made the more peaceful because no one set the dog to biting her heels every time she poked her head around the corner of the barn, and she did not kick out her "hind" leg every time the dog came near, because the dog didn't bite her any more. They were good friends now. A cow has good sense, and can do a terrible sight of thinking when it comes to the way things are going on about milking time. Her teats were not whacked with a big stick on a cold winter day any more because she did not feel like standing in one position so long, and peace reigned within her heart.

Nora's touch became more gentle and she squeezed the lacteal fluid from the bovine with more consideration, all the while humming sweet songs softly to herself, and the old cow heard and knew. She heard Nora say "father" when she spoke to old Peter. Only on rare occasions would she spurt out in the same old way with "Dad," and then be sorry because she had allowed herself to become agitated to such an extent. Everyone noted the great change, but none dared to speak, lest they should disturb her—except Tom, who chided kindly occasionally. They all knew and understood perfectly, and the knowledge was kept secretly in their own bosoms.

Jack Wade thought of all these things too, as he sat on his own little gallery looking wistfully toward the big mountain, with heart bowed in submission to the will of fate. Since his old cabin was burned there had come a great change in his own life. His desires had changed, his purposes seemed different, but he fought it all out courageously. Murderous design was still lodged in his heart. He longed to commit that deed, which done and within itself is a power to bring a man's soul to the deepest depths of degradation and sorrow, to the very brink of hell. His certain knowledge that the savage Al Thompson was only waiting an opportunity to drive to the hilt the knife that would pierce his heart, or from ambush send a bullet from a forty-four Winchester crashing through his brain, weighed upon his mind. These thoughts did not deter him nor move him one inch from his original motive, which, if life was spared him, would be fulfilled to the letter. As Wade sat gazing out through the bright sunlight the big brown dog, Nora's pet, came gliding silently through the gateway and paced up before him. He looked around quickly as the dog; wagging his long, hairy tail, stepped upon the porch.

"What omen have you brought to me this fine day, Rover?" he said, speaking to the dog, all the while rubbing his hand over the shaggy head. "What could have caused you to visit me at this hour?"

The dog just continued to wag his tail and lick the big hands that petted him. Rover had grown to like the big strong young man who was so often with his mistress, and thought perhaps a call at this time would not be out of place.

"This country is terribly agitated just now. Rover," said Wade. "You must watch your mistress closely, and should you think any harm is likely to befall her, you must come and tell me quick."

The dog wagged his tail, seeming to understand fully what Wade was saying.