a broad terrace, amid trees and vines vivid with the
autumn hues; and if any thought of asking Lida to exchange it for a
shack on a ranch still lingered in his mind, it was instantly wiped out
by his first glance at the place.

He walked by on the opposite side of the street, and climbed the mesa
back of the house to spy upon it from the rear, hoping to detect his
loved one walking about under the pear-trees. But she did not appear.
After an hour or so he came down and paced back and forth with eyes on
the gate, unable to leave the street till his soul was fed by one look
at her.

As the sun sank, and the dusk began to come on, he grew a little more
reckless of being recognized, and, crossing the way, continued to
sentinel the gate. He was passing it for the fourth time when Lida came
out upon the porch with an older woman. She looked at the stranger
curiously, but did not recognize him. She wore a hat, and was plainly
about to go for a walk.

Roy knew he ought to hurry away, but he did not. On the contrary, he
shamelessly met her with a solemn, husky-voiced greeting. "Hello, girl!
How's Uncle Dan?"

She started back in alarm, then flushed as she recognized him. "How dare
you speak to me--like that!"

In this moment, as he looked into her face, his courage began to come
back to him. "Why didn't you answer my letters?" he asked, putting her
on defense.

"What business had you to write to me? I told you I would not answer."

"No, you didn't; you only said you wouldn't _speak_ to me again."

"Well, you knew what I meant," she replied, with less asperity.

Someway these slight concessions brought back his audacity, his power of
defense. "You bet I did; but what difference does that make to a sick
man? Oh, I've had a time! I'm no use to the world since you left. I told
you the truth--you're my sun, moon, and stars, and I've come down to say
it just once more before I pull out for Alaska. I'm going to quit the
state. The whole valley is on to my case of loco, and I'm due at the
north pole. I've come to say good-by. Here's where I take my congee."

She read something desperate in the tone of his voice. "What do you
mean? You aren't really leaving?"

"That's what. Here's where I break camp. I can't go on this way. I've
got the worst fever anybody ever had, I reckon. I can't eat or sleep or
work, just on account of studying about you. You've got me goin' in a
circle, and if you don't say you forgive me--it's me to