“Now what,” said Kate aloud, “may that mean?”

“Congratulate us!”

The letter had a note of reckless gayety.  Had Honora and Karl, though cousins, been finding a shining compensation there in the midst of many troubles?  It sounded so, indeed.  Elena Cimiotti might swing down the mountain roads wearing mountain flowers in her hair if she pleased, and Kate would not have thought her dangerous to the peace of Karl Wander.  If the wind were wild and the leaves driving, he might have kissed her in some mad mood.  So much might be granted—­and none, not even Elena, be the worse for it.  But to live side by side with Honora Fulham, to face danger with her, to have the exhilaration of conflict, they two together, the mountains above them, the treacherous foe below, a fortune lost or gained in a day, all the elements of Colorado’s gambling chances of life and fortune at hand, might mean—­anything.

Well, she would congratulate them!  If Honora could forget a shattered heart so soon, if Wander could take it on such easy terms, they were entitled to congratulations of a sort.  And if they were killed some frantic night,—­were blown to pieces with their ruined home, and so reached together whatever lies beyond this life,—­why, then, they were to be congratulated, indeed!  Or if they evaded their enemies and swung their endangered craft into the smooth stream of life, still congratulations were to be theirs.

She confessed to herself that she would rather be in that lonely beleaguered house facing death with Karl Wander than be the recipient of the greatest honor or the participant in the utmost gayety that life could offer.

That the fact was fantastic made it none the less a fact.

* * * * *

Should she write to Honora:  “I congratulate you?”

Or should she wire Karl?

She got out his letters, and his words were as a fresh wind blowing over her spirit.  She realized afresh how this man, seen but once, known only through the medium of infrequent letters, had invigorated her.  What had he not taught her of compassion, of “the glory of the commonplace,” of duty eagerly fulfilled, of the abounding joy of life—­even in life shadowed by care or sickness or poverty?

No, she would write them nothing.  They were her friends in fullness of sympathy.  They, like herself, were of those to whom each day and night is a privilege, to whom sorrow is an enrichment, delight an unfoldment, opposition a spur.  They were of the company of those who dared to speak the truth, who breathed deep, who partook of the banquet of life without fear.

She had seen Honora in the worst hour of tribulation that can come to a good woman, and she knew she had arisen from her overthrow, stronger for the trial; now Karl was battling, and he had cried out to her in his pain—­his shame of defeat.  But it would not be his extinction.  She was sure of that.  They might, among them, slay his body, but she could not read his letters, so full of valiant contrasts, and doubt that his spirit must withstand all adversaries.