ely personal, Phil; I do not care to explain just
now."

"Oh, you don't? Well, it seems to me, sir, that you have a devil of a
lot of personal business that you can't explain."

"I am afraid I have," returned Patches, with his old self-mocking smile.
"But, look here, Phil, you are disturbed and all wrought up about
something, or you wouldn't attack me like this. You don't really think
me a suspicious character, and you know you don't. You are not yourself,
old man, and I'll be hanged if I'll take anything you say as an insult,
until I know that you say it, deliberately, in cold blood. I'm sorry for
your trouble, Phil--damned sorry--I would give anything if I could help
you. Perhaps I may be able to prove that later, but just now I think the
kindest and wisest thing that I can do for us both is to say
good-night."

He turned at the last word, without waiting for Phil to speak, and went
back to his room.

CHAPTER XIII.

IN GRANITE BASIN.

On the other side of Granite Mountain from where Phil and Patches
watched the wild horses that day, there is a rocky hollow, set high in
the hills, but surrounded on every side by still higher peaks and
ridges. Lying close under the sheer, towering cliffs of the mountain,
those fortress-like walls so gray and grim and old seem to overshadow
the place with a somber quiet, as though the memories of the many ages
that had wrought their countless years into those mighty battlements
gave to the very atmosphere a feeling of solemn and sacred seclusion. It
was as though nature had thrown about this spot a strong protecting
guard, that here, in her very heart, she might keep unprofaned the
sweetness and strength and beauty of her primitive and everlasting
treasures.

In its wild and rugged setting, Granite Basin has, for the few who have
the hardihood to find them, many beautiful glades and shady nooks, where
the grass and wild flowers weave their lovely patterns for the earth
floor, and tall pines spread their soft carpets of brown, while giant
oaks and sycamores lift their cathedral arches to support the ceilings
of green, and dark rock fountains set in banks of moss and fern hold
water clear and cold. It was to one of these that Stanford Manning
brought his bride for their honeymoon. Stanford himself pitched their
tent and made their simple camp, for it was not in his plan that the
sweet intimacy of these, the first weeks of their mated life, should be
marred, even by servan