as not afraid--only for you a little," she answered.

"The Redfields like you. Eleanor told me she would gladly help you. Why do
you stay here?"

"I cannot leave my mother."

"I'm not so sure of your duty in that regard. She got on without you for
ten years. You have a right to consider yourself. You don't belong here."

"Neither do you," she retorted.

"Oh yes, I do--at least, the case is different with me; my work is here.
It hurts me to think of going back to the hills, leaving you here in the
midst of these wolves."

He was talking now in the low, throbbing utterance of a man carried out of
himself. "It angers me to think that the worst of these loafers, these
drunken beasts, can glare at you--can speak to you. They have no right to
breathe the same air with one like you."

She did not smile at this; his voice, his eyes were filled with the
gravity of the lover whose passion is not humorous. Against his training,
his judgment, he was being drawn into closer and closer union with this
daughter of violence, and he added: "You may not see me in the morning."

"You must not go without seeing my mother. You must have your breakfast
with us. It hurt us to think you didn't come to us for supper."

Her words meant little, but the look in her eyes, the music in her voice,
made him shiver. He stammered: "I--I must return to my duties to-morrow. I
should go back to-night."

"You mustn't do that. You can't do that. You are to appear before the
judge."

He smiled. "That is true. I'd forgotten that."

Radiant with relief, she extended her hand. "Good-night, then. You must
sleep."

He took her hand and drew her toward him, then perceiving both wonder and
fear in her eyes, he conquered himself. "Good-night," he repeated,
dropping her hand, but his voice was husky with its passion.

Tired as he was, the ranger could not compose himself to sleep. The memory
of the girl's sweet face, the look of half-surrender in her eyes, the
knowledge that she loved him, and that she was lying but a few yards from
him, made slumber impossible. At the moment she seemed altogether
admirable, entirely worthy to be won.

IX

THE OLD SHEEP-HERDER

The ranger was awakened in the first faint dawn by the passing of the
girl's light feet as she went across the hall to her mother's room, and a
moment later he heard the low murmur of her voice. Throwing off his
blankets and making such scant toilet as he needed, he stepped into the