That boy's proud.... I'll bet he raised hell among them I.W.W.'s, if he
got to them." And Anderson chuckled with the delight he always felt in
the Western appreciation of summary violence justly dealt.

Lenore felt the rising tide of her anger. She was her father's daughter,
yet always had been slow to wrath. That was her mother's softness and
gentleness tempering the hard spirit of her father. But now her blood
ran hot, beating and bursting about her throat and temples. And there
was a leap and quiver to her body.

"Dastards! Father, those foreign I.W.W. devils should be shot!" she
cried, passionately. "To ruin those poor, heroic farmers! To ruin
that--that boy! It's a crime! And, oh, to burn his beautiful field of
wheat--with all his hopes! Oh, what shall I call that!"

"Wal, lass, I reckon it'd take stronger speech than any you know,"
responded Anderson. "An' I'm usin' that same."

Lenore sat there trembling, with hot tears running down her cheeks, with
her fists clenched so tight that her nails cut into her palms. Rage only
proved to her how impotent she was to avert catastrophe. How bitter and
black were some trials! She shrank with a sense of acute pain at thought
of the despair there must be in the soul of Kurt Dorn.

"Lenore," began Anderson, slowly--his tone was stronger, vibrant with
feeling--"you love this young Dorn!"

A tumultuous shock shifted Lenore's emotions. She quivered as before,
but this was a long, shuddering thrill shot over her by that spoken
affirmation. What she had whispered shyly and fearfully to herself when
alone and hidden--what had seemed a wonderful and forbidden secret--her
father had spoken out. Lenore gasped. Her anger fled as it had never
been. Even in the dark she hid her face and tried to grasp the wild,
whirling thoughts and emotions now storming her. He had not asked. He
had affirmed. He knew. She could not deceive him even if she would. And
then for a moment she was weak, at the mercy of contending tides.

"Sure I seen he was in love with you," Anderson was saying. "Seen that
right off, an' I reckon I'd not thought much of him if he hadn't
been.... But I wasn't sure of you till the day Dorn saved you from
Ruenke an' fetched you back. Then I seen. An' I've been waitin' for you
to tell me."

"There's--nothing--to tell," faltered Lenore.

"I reckon there is," he replied. Leaning over, he threw his cigar out of
the window and took hold of her.

Lenore had never felt him s