Justin had found Sloan Jasper one of the most troublesome of the water users. Jasper was almost as hard to please as William Sanders; and only the day before Sanders had denounced Justin as being in league with the company to defraud the farmers. For these reasons Justin always approached the farms of these men with trepidation. Trouble was brewed on each visit.

The trouble which brewed at Sloan Jasper’s on this particular occasion was, however, wholly unexpected, and of quite a different kind. Jasper came out to the trail with an anxious air.

“Mary is in the house and wants you to stop in and see her.”

Justin dismounted to enter the house. He had not known that Mary was at home.

“It’s about Ben,” said Jasper, “and I wish he was in hell! The way he is carryin’ on is killin’ my girl by inches.”

With this stout denunciation of Ben ringing in his ears Justin went in to see Mary. She had been crying. Jasper followed him into the house and stood within the doorway, in an uneasy, angry attitude, holding his soiled hat in his hands.

“I wanted to see you about Ben,” said Mary, rising to greet Justin.

Her cheeks were pale and her eyes lacked lustre. With that rose-leaf color gone, her face was so pallid that it deepened by contrast the darkness of her eyes and her hair. She was rather handsome, in spite of all, in one of those Denver dresses chosen by Sibyl Dudley, which served to make her look taller and more stately than she was.

Mary’s desire was to have Justin do something to induce Ben to let liquor alone. She acknowledged that she had lost all control over him, if she had ever had any. More than once he had treated her brutally while in a fit of intoxication. Yet she had clung to him. Having won her girlish love, he still held it. She had long hoped that he would abandon his wild ways after awhile and become a sober, sensible man, to whom she could trust her life and happiness. She admitted that the hope was growing faint.

“I don’t see what I can do,” said Justin, touched by her unhappiness, and perplexed. “If I go to Ben and say anything to him he will only insult me. He hasn’t liked me for a long time, as you know.”

“Perhaps if you would speak to Mr. Davison,” Mary urged, with pathetic persistence.

Justin was sure that would present almost as many difficulties. He knew that Philip Davison had long reasoned with Ben, and raved at him, in vain.

“Since it’s known that you are his half-brother, I thought possibly you could do something. I’ve tried until I don’t know what to try next.”

“Give the scamp the go-by,” said Jasper hotly. “Throw him over. Have some spunk about you, can’t ye? Why, if I was a woman, and a man should treat me as he has you, I’d send him hummin’ in a jiffy; I wouldn’t stand it.”

“But you don’t understand, father.”

“Don’t I? I understand too tarnal well. If I had my way I’d kick his ornery carcass out of this house, if he ever ventured to set foot in it ag’in. That’d be my way. Any other way is a fool’s way, and you ought to know it.”

“Don’t listen to him, Justin,” said Mary, tearfully. “You must know how I feel, even if he doesn’t. And if you can do anything to get Ben to stop drinking and running around with Clem Arkwright I wish you would.”

Never more than at that moment did Justin long for some influence with Ben. He knew he had none. He made what promises he could, but they were not very assuring. Mary followed him to the door, still urging him.

Riding on, thinking of Mary, Justin encountered Lucy. She joined him, and they rode together along the homeward trail. When she rallied him on his depressed manner, he told her of Mary’s appeal.

“Yes,” she admitted, “I had heard she was at home, and I know only too well that Ben has been drinking more than ever of late. I can see that it is hurting Uncle Philip very much. He has always believed that when Ben sows what he calls his wild oats he will change and be a man, but I’ve doubted it. There isn’t anything you can do, not a thing; but I shall go to see Mary, and try to make her feel better.”

She looked earnestly at Justin, riding beside her. He had put aside the checked business suit of gray, and was clad roughly, as became his muddy calling. Yet how manly he was, however he dressed; how broad his shoulders, how sturdy and well-knit his frame, how clear and open his countenance, and how intelligent and attractive the flash of his eyes, as he conversed with her! She knew that she loved him more than ever.

“One would never dream that you are related to Ben!”

“I hope I am not like him, even though he is my half-brother.”

“You aren’t, not in the least; I don’t think I could like you so well as I do if you were.”

“Then you do like me?”

He looked at her, smiling.

“It would be only natural for me to like the man I have promised to marry, wouldn’t it?”

“I was merely hoping that you love me; like is too mild a word.”

Then they began to talk again of that delightful day, ever hastening nearer, as they believed, when they should be not merely lovers, but husband and wife. It was a pleasant dream, and they lingered by the way, as they contemplated its beauties.

As they thus talked and loitered, Ben Davison came driving by in his clog-cart, with Clem Arkwright. Arkwright’s pudgy form was not quite so pudgy, for he had not lived as well of late, but his face and nose were as red as ever, and his old manner had not forsaken him. He bowed elaborately to both Lucy and Justin.

“A great day,” he called, “a glorious day, and the old mountain is grand; just take a glance at it now and then as you ride along; you’ll never see anything finer!”

Ben did not look at Justin; but to Lucy he shouted:

“I’m going to town to sell the horse and dogcart. I told you I would. Arkwright knows a man who will buy them.”

When Lucy called on Mary, she heard details of a story which Mary had not ventured to hint to Justin. Mary had made a discovery too long delayed. Ben’s frequent visits to Denver were not merely to see her; the real attraction was Sibyl Dudley. Sibyl was the recipient of most of the money Ben had been able to wring from his father or gain at gambling. Her calls for money had increased his recklessness. Sibyl was the horse-leech’s daughter, crying ever for more, and Ben was weak.

Mary had pedestaled Sibyl and believed in her, refusing to see aught but goodness, until her foolish belief became no longer possible. Then, with her eyes opened, she marveled at her almost incomprehensible blindness. Why had she not seen before? If she had seen before she might have saved Ben, she thought. She recalled the genial Mr. Plimpton. Had Sibyl, by incessant demands for money, wrought the financial overthrow of Plimpton? Every suggestion that came to her now was sickening and horrible. Such an awakening is often disastrous in its results. Doubt of humanity itself is a fruit of that tree of knowledge, and that doubt had come to Mary.

Lucy took the unhappy girl in her arms. She was herself grieved and shocked.

“You poor dear!” was all she was able to say at first.

“And, oh, I am to blame for it all!” Mary sobbed, putting her arms about the neck of her comforter. “I can see what a fool I was, and it was pride that made me a fool. I went up there as ignorant as a child; I thought it would be fine to live in a city and be a lady and drive round in a carriage. How I hate that carriage! And that coachman. I know even he must have thought horrid things about me. And Plimpton! I know what Plimpton was now, and I hate him. It seems to me I could stamp on him if I saw him fall down in the street. And I—I hate—oh, there isn’t a word strong enough to tell how I hate Mrs. Dudley! I thought she was an angel, and she is—is—a brute!”

“You poor dear!” said Lucy, smoothing back the dark hair from the fevered and tear-wet face. “You poor dear! You have been cruelly deceived and abused. It doesn’t seem possible! I was as much deceived as you, for I thought Mrs. Dudley a very pleasant woman. There were some things about her I didn’t like, about the way she dressed and painted, yet I never thought but that she was a good woman. I didn’t suspect anything, for you told me she was rich.”

“And that’s what she told me, but she lied; she’s been getting her money from fools like Plimpton and Ben. And I used her money, and lived in her house, and rode about in her carriage with all Denver gaping at me, and never knew a thing. Even this dress I have on was bought with her money. I want to tear it off and stamp it into the mud; but I haven’t a thing to wear that she didn’t get for me, not a thing. And my—my silly pride is to blame—is to blame for Ben, and everything. If I hadn’t gone with her Ben might never have met her. But if Ben could only be induced to quit drinking, something could be done with him yet. I almost wish he would get sick; anything to keep him away from that woman.”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“Yes, he did, when I hinted at what I had discovered and told him I had left Denver for good and all; he told me I was a little idiot. But I didn’t mind that; I’ve got so used to his harsh words that I don’t mind them; but this I couldn’t stand, this about Sibyl. So then I put aside my shame, and I told him right to his face that I was a silly idiot or I would never speak to him again; and he confessed to me that he had been going there to see Mrs. Dudley more than me, and said he would go as often as he pleased, and that I could help myself; and he said, too, that he intended to marry her. But I know that isn’t so; he would never marry her now. I told him he wouldn’t, and begged him to remember his promises to me and keep away from her; and he told me to shut my mouth and mind my own business. As if that isn’t my own business!”

She began to cry again; and Lucy, holding her tightly, rocked her as if she were a child.

“And, oh, I was so happy! So happy, until I knew that! It was a selfish happiness I see now but I thought it was true happiness. I thought everything of Mrs. Dudley—just everything; and I thought she loved me as much as I loved her; and to have this come! It breaks my heart, it breaks my heart! Oh, Ben, Ben!”

She lay in Lucy’s arms. Their tears flowed together. But what could be said to comfort her?

“Did Mrs. Dudley say anything?”

“When I reproached her she was indignant and denied it; she cried, and said I was an ungrateful girl and did not deserve to have a friend. She declared that Ben came only to see me; but in her very confusion I could see that she was lying, for when my eyes began to open they became sharp as needles. Oh, I could see through her, after that! I told her she had stolen Ben from me, and all for his money, and that she was ruining him, and that it would kill me. I don’t know what I said, for I was crazy, and I was crying so that I thought my heart would break. And just as soon as I could get out of the house I did, and I came right down here; but even then I had to use her money, a little money she had given me, to pay car fare, for I hadn’t any other. But just the thought of it made me want to jump off that train and kill myself.”

“You poor dear!”

And Lucy, holding her in a close embrace, kissed the tear-stained face.