"Why? Do you like him so much?"

"I like him--of course. He has been almost a brother to me."

"Ahuh! Wal, are you sure you don't like him more'n you
ought--considerin' what's in the wind?"

"Yes, I'm sure I don't," replied Columbine, with tingling cheeks.

"Wal, I'm glad of thet. Reckon it'll be no great matter whether Wils
stays or leaves. If he wants to I'll give him a job with the hounds."

That evening Columbine went to her room early. It was a cozy little
blanketed nest which she had arranged and furnished herself. There was a
little square window cut through the logs and through which many a night
the snow had blown in upon her bed. She loved her little isolated
refuge. This night it was cold, the first time this autumn, and the
lighted lamp, though brightening the room, did not make it appreciably
warmer. There was a stone fireplace, but as she had neglected to bring
in wood she could not start a fire. So she undressed, blew out the lamp,
and went to bed. Columbine was soon warm, and the darkness of her little
room seemed good to her. Sleep she felt never would come that night. She
wanted to think; she could not help but think; and she tried to halt the
whirl of her mind. Wilson Moore occupied the foremost place in her
varying thoughts--a fact quite remarkable and unaccountable. She tried
to change it. In vain! Wilson persisted--on his white mustang flying
across the ridge-top--coming to her as never before--with his anger and
disapproval--his strange, poignant cry, "Columbine!" that haunted
her--with his bitter smile and his resignation and his mocking talk of