swiftly, saw that the man was coming on to
meet her, saw the great, tall, gaunt form, marked the free swinging
carriage which she had noted so many times before, noticed the way he
carried his head, well back, saw the sunlight splashing like fire in
the red, red hair that in some fashion seemed to proclaim red blood and
recklessness. A young man he was with mighty hands and iron body, with
life leaping high in his laughing eyes, a man who might have been some
pagan god of youth and joy and heedlessness.

His big boots brought him on swiftly until he came to her horse and she
stopped, her eyes dropping before his. He twined his fingers in
Gypsy's mane and looked up into her face, he laughing softly.

"So you've ridden back to us, at last." His voice was in tune with the
rest of him, suggesting the wildness and recklessness that were part of
the man's nature. He ran on, half bantering, half softly wondering at
the loveliness of her. "Are you pagan nymph or Christian maiden,
Wanda?" he asked a little seriously, as nearly serious, one might have
said, as it was this man's nature to be.

She raised her lowered eyes, looking at him searchingly. Then he saw
the tears that at last were spilling over, the face from which the
colour was going again, the traces of horror of that thing which lay
far back there under the pines.

"Wanda!" he cried sharply. "You . . . There's something the matter!
I've been running on like an inspired idiot and . . . What is it,
Wanda?"

"Oh," she said desperately, "it is terrible! I can't . . ." She
choked over her words. But they were burning the soul within her, and
she ran on hastily. "I found him back there by Echo Creek crossing.
He . . . he is dead."

"Dead?" repeated the man. "Dead? Who, Wanda?"

"Arthur!" she whispered.

"Arthur, dead?" he muttered, his voice oddly low and quiet. "Arthur,
dead? I don't understand."

"He is dead," she said again heavily. "Some one shot him."

She broke off and began to sob. He looked first at her, then along the
trail she had ridden, and finally, taking his hand from her horse's
mane he turned abruptly and strode off toward the house. He mounted
the steps swiftly, passed her father and mother without a word in
answer to the questioning faces they turned toward him, entered the
door and returned almost immediately, carrying his hat in his hand. As
he came down the steps, he put on his hat and bent his head a little so
that she