re, and there alone."

Gardiner waited until he saw Riles fumbling carefully with the
blanket that hung in the doorway. Then he darted quickly to the
window.

CHAPTER XVII

THE FIGHT IN THE FOOTHILLS

While Allan sat in the little cabin he gradually became oppressed
with a sense of great loneliness. From time to time he looked at the
face of his sleeping father, and suddenly the knowledge struck him
like a knife that it was the face of an old man. He had never thought
of him as an old man before, but as he lay on the rough floor,
sleeping soundly after his long drive, there was something in the
form that told of advancing years, and Allan could see plainly the
deepening furrows in his strong, still handsome face. As he looked a
vast tenderness mingled with his loneliness; he would have stooped
and caressed him had he not feared to disturb his slumbers. Allan's
love for his father was that of man to man rather than son to parent;
it was the only deep passion of his young life, and it ran with a
fulness that could not be checked. Of his mother he thought with
kindliness, tinged with regret that all had not of late been quite as
it should be in their domestic circle; toward his sister he felt a
vague longing and uneasiness, and a new feeling which had taken root
that afternoon that perhaps after all she was right in seeking to
live her life as she would; but it was to his father that his great
emotion turned. He looked upon the sleeping man now, with the wealth
of a lifetime's labour at his side, and the bond of trust and
confidence between them seemed so tight it brought the moisture to
his eyes. He thought of the past years; of their labour on the farm
together--hard labour, but always relieved by their comradeship and
mutual ambitions. A hundred half-forgotten incidents came to mind, in
all of which his father was companion and chum rather than parent and
corrector. And after all, hadn't it been worth while? Had not they,
in their way, really given expression to their lives as best they
could in the black, earth-smelling furrows, in the scent of tallowy,
straw-aromaed steam from their engine, or the wet night-perfume of
ripening wheat? How those old smells beat up from the mysterious
chambers of memory and intoxicated his nostrils with fondness and a
great sense of having, in some few hallowed moments, dove-tailed his
own career into the greater purpose of creation! Allan did not
analyze these thoughts a