in everything you
undertake, Jeff. I don't care now for a thing else in the world. You
do believe that, don't you? Oh, Jeff, I want you always to believe
that. Whatever may come in our life together, I want you always to
know I love you better--better than the whole world, and your--your
happiness is just my happiness. Without your happiness I can never be
happy. It was selfishness made me demur at first. You believe that,
don't you? I have always been very, very selfish. It was nothing
else. You don't think there was anything else, do you? I sort of feel
I'd always have you in my sight, near me. I'm happy then, because I
feel nothing can ever come between us. When you're away, I don't know,
but it sort of seems as if shadows grow up threatening me. I felt that
way this morning. I felt that way when I read your letter. But these
things just shan't be. I love you with all that's in me, and--you love
me. Nothing shall ever come between us. Say that's so, Jeff.
Nothing. Nothing."

The man responded with all a lover's impetuosity. He gave her to the
full that reassurance of which she stood in need. But for all his
sincerity it was as useless as if it had been left unspoken.

The letter from Dug McFarlane at Orrville, the recognition of her by
the man Sikkem Bruce, had warned Elvine that the sands of her time of
happiness were running out. She felt she knew that a gape of despair
was already yawning at her feet.

CHAPTER XVIII

DUG MCFARLANE

The aroma of cigars blended delightfully with the fragrant evening air.
Through the cool green lacing of the creeper the sun poured the last of
its golden rays into the wide stoop. The mists were already gathering
upon the lower slopes of the hills, and a deep purpling seemed to be
steadily embracing the whole of the great mountain range.

Two men were lounging comfortably in wide wicker chairs on the veranda.
They were resting bodies that rarely knew fatigue in the strenuous life
that was theirs. But then the day was closing, and one of them had
come a long saddle journey. Whisky stood on a table at the elbow of
Dug McFarlane. Jeffrey Masters had coffee near by.

Outside the veranda a smudge fire in a bucket was doing battle with
attacking mosquitoes, while its thin spiral of smoke served as a screen
upon the still air to shut out the view of the disheveled township of
Orrville.

Dug McFarlane, opulent, of middle life and massive proportions,