fairly well. This valley is sheltered, you know. Snow hasn't
been too deep. Then I bought hay from Andrews. I'm hoping for spring
now, and the good old sunshine on the gray sage hills. And summer, with
its columbines! Wade has gone back to his own cabin to sleep. I miss
him. But I'm glad to have the nights alone once more. I've got a future
to plan! Read that over, Collie.

"To-day, when Wade came with your letter, he asked me, sort of queer,
'Say, Wils, do you know how many letters I've fetched you from Collie?'
I said, 'Lord, no, I don't, but they're a lot.' Then he said there were
just forty-seven letters. Forty-seven! I couldn't believe it, and told
him he was crazy. I never had such good fortune. Well, he made me count
them, and, dog-gone it, he was right. Forty-seven wonderful love-letters
from the sweetest girl on earth! But think of Wade remembering every
one! It beats me. He's beyond understanding.

"So Jack Belllounds still stays away from White Slides. Collie, I'm sure
sorry for his father. What it would be to have a son like Buster Jack!
My God! But for your sake I go around yelling and singing like a locoed
Indian. Pretty soon spring will come. Then, you wild-flower of the
hills, you girl with the sweet mouth and the sad eyes--then I'm coming
after you! And all the king's horses and all the king's men can never
take you away from me again!

"Your faithful
"WILSON."

"March 19th.

"DEAREST WILSON,--Your last letters have been read and reread, and kept
under my pillow, and have been both my help and my weakness during these
trying days since Jack's return.

"It has not been that I was afraid to write--though, Heaven knows, if
this letter should fall into the hands of dad it would mean trouble for
me, and if Jack read it--I _am_ afraid to think of that! I just have not
had the heart to write you. But all the time I knew I must write and
that I would. Only, now, what to say tortures me. I am certain that
confiding in you relieves me. That's why I've told you so much. But of
late I find it harder to tell what I know about Jack Belllounds. I'm in
a queer state of mind, Wilson dear. And you'll wonder, and you'll be
sorry to know I haven't seen much of Ben lately--that is, not to talk
to. It seems I can't _bear_ his faith in me, his hope, his love--when
lately matters have driven me into torturing doubt.

"But lest you might misunderstand, I'm going to try to tell you
something of what