if Jack Belllounds had come home. It required effort of will to approach
the house. Yet since she must meet him, the sooner the ordeal was over
the better. Nevertheless she tiptoed past the bright windows, and went
all the length of the long porch, and turned around and went back, and
then hesitated, fighting a slow drag of her spirit, an oppression upon
her heart. The door was crude and heavy. It opened hard.

Columbine entered a big room lighted by a lamp on the upper table and by
blazing logs in a huge stone fireplace. This was the living-room, rather
gloomy in the corners, and bare, but comfortable, for all simple needs.
The logs were new and the chinks between them filled with clay, still
white, showing that the house was of recent build.

The rancher, Belllounds, sat in his easy-chair before the fire, his big,
horny hands extended to the warmth. He was in his shirt-sleeves, a
gray, bold-faced man, of over sixty years, still muscular and rugged.

At Columbine's entrance he raised his drooping head, and so removed the
suggestion of sadness in his posture.

"Wal, lass, hyar you are," was his greeting. "Jake has been hollerin'
thet chuck was ready. Now we can eat."

"Dad--did--did your son come?" asked Columbine.

"No. I got word jest at sundown. One of Baker's cowpunchers from up the
valley. He rode up from Kremmlin' an' stopped to say Jack was
celebratin' his arrival by too much red liquor. Reckon he won't be home
to-night. Mebbe to-morrow."