and she turned slowly away
without another word.

"Good-by, Columbine," he called out after her, with farewell, indeed, in
his voice.

All the way home Columbine was occupied with feelings that swayed her to
the exclusion of rational consideration of the increasing perplexity of
her situation. And to make matters worse, when she arrived at the ranch
it was to meet Jack Belllounds with a face as black as a thunder-cloud.

"The old man wants to see you," he announced, with an accent that
recalled his threat of a few hours back.

"Does he?" queried Columbine, loftily. "From the courteous way you speak
I imagine it's important."

Belllounds did not deign to reply to this. He sat on the porch, where
evidently he had awaited her return, and he looked anything but happy.

"Where is dad?" continued Columbine.

Jack motioned toward the second door, beyond which he sat, the one that
opened into the room the rancher used as a kind of office and storeroom.
As Columbine walked by Jack he grasped her skirt.

"Columbine! you're angry?" he said, appealingly.

"I reckon I am," replied Columbine.

"Don't go in to dad when you're that way," implored Jack. "He's angry,
too--and--and--it'll only make matters worse."

From long experience Columbine could divine when Jack had done something
in the interest of self and then had awakened to possible consequences.
She pulled away from him without replying, and knocked on the
office door.

"Come in," called the rancher.

Columbine went in. "Hello, dad! Do you want me?"

Belllounds sat at an old table, bending over a soiled ledger, with a
stubby pencil in his huge hand. When he looked up Columbine gave a
little start.

"Where've you been?" he asked, gruffly.

"I've been calling on Mrs. Andrews," replied Columbine.

"Did you go thar to see her?"

"Why--certainly!" answered Columbine, with a slow break in her speech.

"You didn't go to meet Wilson Moore?"

"No."

"An' I reckon you'll say you hadn't heerd he was there?"

"I had not," flashed Columbine.

"Wal, _did_ you see him?"

"Yes, sir, I did, but quite by accident."

"Ahuh! Columbine, are you lyin' to me?"

The hot blood flooded to Columbine's cheeks, as if she had been struck a
blow.

"_Dad_!" she cried, in hurt amaze.

Belllounds seemed thick, imponderable, as if something had forced a
crisis in him and his brain was deeply involved. The habitual, cool,
easy, bold, and frank attitude in the meeting of all