denly dried under her lids, and walked
down the road in the twilight.

Weeks went by, and though Gillispie and
Waite were often at Catherine's, Henderson
never came. Gillispie gave it out as his
opinion that Henderson was an ungrateful
puppy; but Waite said nothing. This
strange man, who seemed like a mere unto-
ward accident of nature, had changed dur-
ing the summer. His big ill-shaped body
had grown more gaunt; his deep-set gray
eyes had sunk deeper; the gentleness which
had distinguished him even on the wild
ranges of Montana became more marked.
Late in August he volunteered to take on
himself the entire charge of the night
watch.

"It's nicer to be out at night," he said
to Catherine. "Then you don't keep look-
ing off at things; you can look inside;" and
he struck his breast with his splay hand.

Cattle are timorous under the stars. The
vastness of the plains, the sweep of the wind
under the unbroken arch, frighten them;
they are made for the close comforts of the
barn-yard; and the apprehension is con-
tagious, as every ranchman knows. Waite