"And is that all?" asked Mary Rochefort, after a while.

"Oh, no," said Burnaby; "it's only the beginning. Mackintosh was in the
hills beyond his ranch, hunting horses. He was camped in a little valley
by himself. On this particular day he had been out since sun-up and did
not get back until just about dusk. He picketed the horse he had been
riding, and built a small fire, and began to cook his supper. All around
him, brooding and unreal, was the light you get in high mountain places.
The fire shone like a tiny ruby set in topaz. Mackintosh raised his head
and saw a woman coming out of the spur of aspen trees across the creek
from him. He wasn't surprised; he knew right away who it was; he knew it
was the girl. He watched her for a moment, and then he went over to her,
and took her hand, and led her to the fire. They didn't speak at all."

"And you mean," asked Mrs. Ennis, "that she did that? That she came all
the way out to him, like that?"

"No," retorted Burnaby, "of course not. How could she? She wasn't even
sure where he was living. At the moment she was in a hospital out of her
head. You see, I didn't know whether to believe Mackintosh or not when
he said he saw her that night, although I am sure he believed he
did--such things are beyond human proof--but what I do know is that he
came straight down from the hills, and boarded a train, and went East,
and found the girl, and, after a while, came back with her." He looked
at the fire. "They were the most completely happy people I have ever
seen," he continued. "They were so calm and determined about themselves.
Everything immaterial had been burned away. They knew they were playing
on the side of fate. And so," he concluded, "that's the end of my
parable. What do you make of it?"