him. He searched frantically and in vain for qualities within himself by which he might hope to deserve this girl's love.
Had he not been a waster, a slacker from the works of men? Had he anything in general or particular because of which he might expect a girl to love him? The things on which he used to pride himself had been suddenly revealed as so much dust in his hands—inherited wealth, social distinction, an influential ancestry. Here, he rightly concluded, these three things were not worth the powder to blow them up. He did remember, with some pride, that he had a certain amount of physical strength. Already that had been of use to Alice, and the time might come wherein it would be of use again. He was a fairly able sheepman, and he had already earned over a hundred dollars. But he felt like a peasant, offering his heart to the queen of the realm. It got down to a serious matter that as yet he did not feel that he had justified his own existence, that he had established himself in the great world of men and toil, and that he had not yet been purged by the fires of trial and stress, and redeemed in battle.
He mourned her when she left to bring supplies, and welcomed her with the abandon of a child when she came back to him. In the early nights, in the fire's glow, dreams of her were ever with him, filling him with strange, happy glowings and warm little quivers of delight. But his
