o his
senses. After long weeks of long, arduous travel he was home. The
warmth of the welcome still lingered, but it seemed to have been
pierced by an icy thrust. What lay before him? The shadow in the eyes
of his aunt, in the younger, fresher eyes of his sister--Jean connected
that with the meaning of his father's tragic words. Far past was the
morning that had been so keen, the breaking of camp in the sunlit
forest, the riding down the brown aisles under the pines, the music of
bleating lambs that had called him not to pass by. Thought of Ellen
Jorth recurred. Had he met her only that morning? She was up there in
the forest, asleep under the starlit pines. Who was she? What was her
story? That savage fling of her skirt, her bitter speech and
passionate flaming face--they haunted Jean. They were crystallizing
into simpler memories, growing away from his bewilderment, and
therefore at once sweeter and more doubtful. "Maybe she meant
differently from what I thought," Jean soliloquized. "Anyway, she was
honest." Both shame and thrill possessed him at the recall of an
insidious idea--dare he go back and find her and give her the last
package of gifts he had brought from the city? What might they mean to
poor, ragged, untidy, beautiful Ellen Jorth? The idea grew on Jean.
It could not be dispelled. He resisted stubbornly. It was bound to go
to its fruition. Deep into his mind had sunk an impression of her
need--a material need that brought spirit and pride to abasement. From
one picture to another his memory wandered, from one speech and act of
hers to another, choosing, selecting, casting aside, until clear and
sharp as the stars shone the words, "Oh, I've been kissed before!"
That stung him now. By whom? Not by one man, but by several, by many,
she had meant. Pshaw! he had only been sympathetic and drawn by a
strange girl in the woods. To-morrow he would forget. Work there was
for him in Grass Valley. And he reverted uneasily to the remarks of
his father until at last sleep claimed him.

A cold nose against his cheek, a low whine, awakened Jean. The big dog
Shepp was beside him, keen, wary, intense. The night appeared far
advanced toward dawn. Far away a cock crowed; the near-at-hand one
answered in clarion voice. "What is it, Shepp?" whispered Jean, and he
sat up. The dog smelled or heard something suspicious to his nature,
but whether man or animal Jean could not tell.

CHAPTER III

The m