a mere farmhand, without money or education,
homeless, obscure. The thought was maddening, and one day he suddenly
disappeared from camp. He didn't say good-bye to any one; he felt he
had no apology that he could offer. But he had to go, for he felt the
necessity for work, longed for it, as a drunkard longs for liquor."

"Oh!" The exclamation came from the lips of the girl beside him.
"I--we--all wondered why--."

"Well, that was why.

"He fell in with a threshing-crew, and asked to work for his board.
They thought him queer, but accepted his offer. For two days he stayed
with them, doing the work of two men. It seemed as if he couldn't do
enough--he couldn't become tired. He wanted to think it all out, and
he couldn't with the fever in his blood.

"At night he couldn't sleep--Nature was pitiless. He would walk the
road for miles until morning.

"With the third day came relief. All at once he felt fearfully tired,
and fell asleep where he stood. Several of the crew carried him to a
darkened room, and there he slept as a dumb animal sleeps. When he
awoke, he was himself again; his mind was clear and cool. He looked
the future squarely in the face, now, and clearly, as if a finger
pointed, he saw the path that was marked for him. He must go his
way--and she must go hers. Perhaps, after four years or more--but the
future was God's."

The boy paused. The lights of the town were nearing, now; but he still
looked out over the moon-kissed prairie.

"The rest you know. The dreamer returned. The party scarcely knew him,
for he seemed years older. There were but a few days more of camp
life, and he spent most of the time with the girl. Like a malefactor
out on bail, he was painting a picture for the future. He thought he
had conquered himself--but he hadn't. It was the same old struggle.
Was not love more than ambition or wealth? Had he not earned the
right to speak? But something held him back. If justice to himself,
was it justice to the girl? Conscience said 'No.' It was hard--no one
knows how hard--but he said nothing."

Once more he turned to his companion, in his voice the tenderness of a
life-long passion.

"This is the story: did the boy do right?" A life's work--greater than
a life itself, hung on the answer to that question.

The girl understood it all. She had always known that she liked him;
but now--now--As he had told his story, she had felt, first, pity, and
then something else; something incomparably