must try to forget."

Then had happened something so startling that even now she could hardly
credit it. Jeff had turned away. His face was toward the hills where
the setting sun still lit the fastnesses in which lay the fateful
Spruce Crossing. His words came shortly, simply.

"I wasn't thinking of--Evie," he said. "The memory of her, of all
that, has gone--forever."

Oh, the bewilderment of that moment. Nan remembered the absurdity of
her reply now with something very like panic:

"Who--what--were you thinking of then?"

"Who--what?" The man's eyes lit with a deep, passionate yearning.
"Why, little Nan, the only person who is ever in my thoughts now--you."

It had come so simply yet so full of scarcely restrained passion.
Would she ever forget? Never, never. Her emotions had been beyond
words. She wanted to weep. She wanted to laugh. But more than all
she wanted to flee before he could utter another word. She turned to
her horse without a word. In a moment she was in the saddle, and had
turned the creature about to ride off. But Jeff's voice stayed her.

"Say, little Nan, I----" he broke off. "Oh, I guess I'll eat at the
bunkhouse. I haven't time for supper right. I've got to get down to
the branding pinch. Say, Nan," a sudden deep urging had filled his
voice, and he came to her horse's side and laid a detaining hand upon
its reins. "Can I come along up--later? I didn't mean to make you
mad. True. I couldn't help it. I---- May I come along--after I get
through?"

It had been utterly impossible for her to make articulate reply. Her
emotions were too deep, too overwhelming. She had simply nodded her
head. And in that trifling movement she knew she had conveyed a sign
beyond all misunderstanding.

After that the woman had impelled her. She hurriedly rode off, fearing
she knew not what. She knew she fled, incontinently fled. And her
first act on arrival home had been to rid herself of the almost mannish
suit in which she worked, so that Jeff, when he made his appearance,
might find her the woman she really was.

The voices of the men on the veranda reached Nan within the parlor.
She did not want to listen. She told herself so. Besides, she had a
perfect right to remain where she was. And, anyway, Bud had no secrets
from her. So she placed herself beyond the chance of observation, and
remained quiet lest she should lose a word of what the voices were
saying.

Bud was talking.