had made him turn from himself for a time to study her. He had become
an egotist and so had dared to love her. She had loved him, he
thought, for she said so, and promised to become his wife. Things were
growing brighter. But they met an officious friend. They were in
Venice at the time, he having joined her there with her family. The
officious friend joined the family too, and he held up his hands in
horror when he heard of it. Didn't the family know? Oh, yes, Bob was
himself a fine fellow; but he was Whiskey Weston!

"Of course, no good woman wants to be Mrs. Whiskey Weston," said my
friend grimly. "Still, I think she did care a bit for me; but it was
all up. Back I came, and here I am, Mark, just kind of stopping to
stretch my legs and rest a little and breathe. I came on a wheel, for
I had ridden for miles and miles trying to get my mind back on myself
the way it used to be."

Then he smoked.

"Is that the dogs again?" I said, to break the oppressive silence.

Weston did not heed me, but pointed down the valley to the house by the
clump of oaks.

"Do you know sometimes I think that Mary there, with all her bringing
up, would edge away from me if she knew that my father had kept saloons
and gambling places and all that." Weston spoke carelessly, puffing at
his cigar, for he had recovered his easy demeanor. "I think a world of
Mary, Mark. She is beautiful, and good, and honest. Sometimes I
suspect that I've stayed here just for her. Sometimes I think I will
not leave till she goes--" Weston sprang to his feet. "It's the dogs!
Hear them!" he cried.

I was up too. Away down the ridge we heard the bay of the hounds again.

"I want to tell you something," I said, pointing to the house by the
clump of oaks. "I wish for your sake that there were two Marys,
Weston. But there is only one, and she is good and beautiful, and for
some reason--Heaven only knows why--she is going to be my wife."

Weston stepped hack and gazed at me. I did not blame him. He seemed
to study me from head to foot, and I knew that he was trying to find
some reason why the girl should care for me. It was natural. I had
puzzled over the same problem and I had not solved it. Now I did not
care.

"Stare on," I cried, laughing. "You can't think it queerer than I do.
It's hard for me to convince myself that it is true."

"I am glad," he said, taking my hand in a warm grasp. "It isn't
strange at all, Mark, for Mary is