ere was nothing absurd to him in Bud's
suggestion. There was nothing startling even in the probing of his
secret with so much directness.

"I haven't asked her--yet."

Then it was that the big heart of the friend, who was almost a father,
made itself apparent.

"But you're goin' to, Jeff. An' she's goin' to take you. Say, Jeff,
she's one lucky woman."

In a moment the tide of the younger man's feelings was set flowing. In
a moment the egoism of the lover made a generous nature forget all else
but the passion that absorbed him. In a moment the thought that this
man was Nan's father, and that the dearest wish of his life was that
he, Jeff, should marry his daughter, was forgotten.

"Lucky? But you got it wrong, Bud," Jeff cried, sitting erect, his
face flushed with the passionate stirring of Ills strong heart. "It's
I who'll be lucky, if she don't turn me down. Man, I'm not worth the
dust on her shoes. I'm not fit to lackey for her. Nor--nor is any
other feller. Say, Bud," he went on, leaning impressively forward, his
eyes shining with his passion, "I'm just crazy to death for her.
And--and I can't just help it. I'd go through hell's flames for her,
man, I'd----"

"Say, boy, don't worry that-a-way. Jest marry her instead," Bud broke
in with his gentlest smile. "You're all sorts of a boy, Jeff, and I
don't figger you got call to talk about the dust of any woman's shoes.
But I guess ther's times when it's good fer a man to feel he ain't as
big as he's told. Anyways, you get right ahead, and leave me to the
Obars. I ain't goin' to fail you now, any more than any other time."
Then he rumpled his stubbly hair again, and it was an action that
suggested heavy thought. "Say," he went on, a moment later, his eyes
looking squarely into the face of the other, "we're hittin' the trail
good an' early to-morrow. Guess you best let me say 'good-bye' to Nan
for you. That so?"

Jeff nodded. He understood. And somehow the bigness of this man made
him almost despise himself.

"Then I guess I'll get right on with my--packin'."

* * * * * *

They were standing on the stoop of Aston's Hotel. In front of them the
broad Avenue opened out with its central walk, between an aisle of
wide-spreading maple trees bathed in the early morning sun. A spring
wagon was already moving away, piled up with baggage. The saddle
horses were ready, held by one of the hotel servants. Nan, in her