all that out on the way home."

As he finished speaking, he rose to go, and the dog, springing up,
dashed out of the cabin and across the clearing toward the bluff
by the corral, barking furiously.

The two men looked at each other. "A rabbit," said Mr. Howitt. But
they both knew that the well trained shepherd dog never tracked a
rabbit, and Old Matt's face was white when he mounted to ride away
up the trail.

Long the shepherd stood in the doorway looking out into the night,
listening to the voices of the wilderness. In his life in the
hills he had found a little brightness, while in the old
mountaineer's words that evening, he had glimpsed a future
happiness, of which he had scarcely dared to dream. With the
single exception of that one wild night, his life had been an
unbroken calm. Now he was to leave it all. And for what?

He seemed to hear the rush and roar of the world beyond the
ridges, as one in a quiet harbor hears outside the thunder of the
stormy sea. He shuddered. The gloom and mystery of it all crept
into his heart. He was so alone. But it was not the wilderness
that made him shudder. It was the thought of the great, mad, cruel
world that raged beyond the hills; that, and something else.

The dog growled again and faced threateningly toward the cliff.
"What is it, Brave?" The only answer was an uneasy whine as the
animal crouched close to the man's feet. The shepherd peered into
the darkness in the direction of the ruined cabin. "God," he
whispered, "how can I leave this place?"

He turned back into the house, closed and barred the door. With
the manner of one making a resolution after a hard struggle, he
took writing material from the top shelf of the cupboard, and,
seating himself at the table, began to write. The hours slipped
by, and page after page, closely written, came from the shepherd's
pen, while, as he wrote, the man's face grew worn and haggard. It
was as though he lifted again the burden he had learned to lay
aside. At last it was finished. Placing the sheets in an envelope,
he wrote the address with trembling hand.

While Mr. Howitt was writing his letter at the ranch, and Old Matt
was tossing sleeplessly on his bed in the big log house, a
horseman rode slowly down from the Compton Ridge road. Stopping at
the creek to water, he pushed on up the mountain toward the Lane
cabin. The horse walked with low hung head and lagging feet; the
man slouched half asleep in the saddle. It was Jim