health in the coffee.

"No! I haven't gone."

"Are you going?"

"Not unless Father's health improves."

"Isn't he well?"

"No," her face clouded sadly, "he is over-working. Oh, you don't know
how sorry I am," she began, and faltered.

"Sorry? for him?"

"Yes. And for you. And for m-- and because things have come around like
this."

"Let's not be sorry just now," said Steering. "Won't you, please, talk
about glad things now. It's so pleasant to have you here." Since she was
unhappy, he took charge of her unhappiness, and would not be serious any
longer about anything. When she brought him his corn-dodger on a
shingle and more coffee in a tin dipper, he was foolish with happiness,
kept his own spirits high and overcame every little disposition to
seriousness on her part until their picnic had to come to an end, and
she must be starting back down the river road.

"Do you feel like doing something for me?" she asked, her hand in his,
as she made ready to go.

"Something? Everything."

"Then wait just as long as you can, will you?"

"Yes, I will, gladly, since you ask it, just as long as I can."
Steering's voice sang as he answered.

She would not let him accompany her on her homeward journey, but went on
down the river road alone, and Steering returned to the shack, and
carefully measured the amount left in his meal sack, and carefully
counted the money in his wallet. There was just about enough in the sack
to last ten days, flanked by the potatoes and the bacon, and there was
so little in the wallet that any kind of emotion about it seemed a
waste. Still, he did not appear to appreciate the extremity of the
situation as yet. His face was all lit up and the sound of his own voice
pleased him.

"I will wait, just as long as I can," he repeated at the end of his
calculations, "and I can till the meal gives out."

_Chapter Fourteen_

WHEN THE MEAL GAVE OUT

Steering sat on his bunk in his shack with his elbows on his knees, his
head in his hands, and his eyes upon an empty bag that hung from the
bough of a weeping-willow tree. He had just written Carington to explain
that it could not be said that he had conquered Missouri, and that he
was leaving next day for Colorado to try his luck at gold on the Cripple
Creek circuit. He had not explained to Carington that he would walk the
greater part of the way. By some strange perversity of pride a man never
does explain a thing of that kind to anybody,