oony about
you. You can make him stay. An' it's your future--your happiness....
Child, no Anderson ever loves twice."

"I cannot throw myself into his arms," whispered Lenore, very low.

"Reckon I didn't mean you to," returned Anderson, gruffly.

"Then--if--if he does not ask me to--to marry him--how can I--"

"Lenore, no man on earth could resist you if you just let yourself be
sweet--as sweet as you are sometimes. Dorn could never leave you!"

"I'm not so sure of that, daddy," she murmured.

"Then take my word for it," he replied, and he got up from the chair,
though still holding her. "I'll have to go now.... But I've shown my
hand to you. Your happiness is more to me than anythin' else in this
world. You love that boy. He loves you. An' I never met a finer lad!
Wal, here's the point. He need be no slacker to stay home. He can do
more good here. Then outside of bein' a wheat man for his army an' his
country he can be one for me. I'm growin' old, my lass!... Here's the
biggest ranch in Washington to look after, an' I want Kurt Dorn to look
after it.... Now, Lenore, do we understand each other?"

She put her arms around his neck. "Dear old daddy, you're the
wonderfulest father any girl ever had! I would do my best--I would obey
even if I did not love Kurt Dorn.... To hear you speak so of him--oh,
its sweet! It--chokes me!... Now, good-night.... Hurry, before I--"

She kissed him and gently pushed him out of the room. Then before the
sound of his slow footfalls had quite passed out of hearing she lay
prone upon her bed, her face buried in the pillow, her hands clutching
the coverlet, utterly surrendered to a breaking storm of emotion.
Terrible indeed had come that presaged crisis of her life. Love of her
wild brother Jim, gone to atone forever for the errors of his youth;
love of her father, confessing at last the sad fear that haunted him;
love of Dorn, that stalwart clear-eyed lad who set his face so bravely
toward a hopeless, tragic fate--these were the burden of the flood of
her passion, and all they involved, rushing her from girlhood into
womanhood, calling to her with imperious desires, with deathless
loyalty.

CHAPTER XVIII

After Lenore's paroxysm of emotion had subsided and she lay quietly in
the dark, she became aware of soft, hurried footfalls passing along the
path below her window. At first she paid no particular heed to them, but
at length the steady steps became so different in number, a