tains. Rather Hugh knew those known to the shepherds who watched the sky for a sign in olden days,—the peace of the stars and the glory of the moon. The only talk was such as he and the shepherd dog had together, the complaint of the sheep, and the voices of the forest about him. The crowds were far, the gaieties were known at last as the dreams they really were, and in their place was the silence, the inner peace, the joy of conquest, and the white sheep, feeding in the shadow of the high peaks. He was far and alone, but he was content.
But Hugh was not entirely forgotten. Even now the Old Colonel sat in his chair in the lounging room, his factory-tied tie at an angle at his collar, his hands folded, his eyes seeing out and beyond the city that stretched about him. And to him, at least, Hugh was still a reality. Even if he were dead—slain in some great stress in those far Rockies—he was more vital and alive in the Colonel's eye than he had ever been before. Had he won, or had he failed? Was he standing straight or had he fallen? Had he gone down, or even now was he sitting, redeemed and recreated, beside his camp fire in the Land of Mighty Men?
