Black bears, and browns, and grizzlies came out of their winter’s sleep, and left huge, muddy tracks on the trails; the timber wolves at dusk mourned their hungry calls for life, for meat, for the wildness that was passing; the coyotes yelped at sunset, joyous and sharp and impudent.

But winter yielded reluctantly its hold on the mountains.  The black, scudding clouds, and the squalls of rain and sleet and snow, whitening and melting and vanishing, and the cold, clear nights, with crackling frost, all retarded the work of the warming sun.  The day came, however, when the greens held their own with the grays; and this was the assurance of nature that spring could not be denied, and that summer would follow.

* * * * *

Bent Wade was hiding in the willows along the trail that followed one of the brooks.  Of late, on several mornings, he had skulked like an Indian under cover, watching for some one.  On this morning, when Columbine Belllounds came riding along, he stepped out into the trail in front of her.

“Oh, Ben! you startled me!” she exclaimed, as she held hard on the frightened horse.

“Good mornin’, Collie,” replied Wade.  “I’m sorry to scare you, but I’m particular anxious to see you.  An’ considerin’ how you avoid me these days, I had to waylay you in regular road-agent style.”

Wade gazed up searchingly at her.  It had been some time since he had been given the privilege and pleasure of seeing her close at hand.  He needed only one look at her to confirm his fears.  The pale, sweet, resolute face told him much.

“Well, now you’ve waylaid me, what do you want?” she queried, deliberately.

“I’m goin’ to take you to see Wils Moore,” replied Wade, watching her closely.

“No!” she cried, with the red staining her temples.

“Collie, see here.  Did I ever oppose anythin’ you wanted to do?”

“Not—­yet,” she said.

“I reckon you expect me to?”

She did not answer that.  Her eyes drooped, and she nervously twisted the bridle reins.

“Do you doubt my—­my good intentions toward you—­my love for you?” he asked, in gentle and husky voice.

“Oh, Ben!  No!  No!  It’s that I’m afraid of your love for me!  I can’t bear—­what I have to bear—­if I see you, if I listen to you.”

“Then you’ve weakened?  You’re no proud, high-strung, thoroughbred girl any more?  You’re showin’ yellow?”

“Ben Wade, I deny that,” she answered, spiritedly, with an uplift of her head.  “It’s not weakness, but strength I’ve found.”

“Ahuh!  Well, I reckon I understand.  Collie, listen.  Wils let me read your last letter to him.”

“I expected that.  I think I told him to.  Anyway, I wanted you to know—­what—­what ailed me.”

“Lass, it was a fine, brave letter—­written by a girl facin’ an upheaval of conscience an’ soul.  But in your own trouble you forget the effect that letter might have on Wils Moore.”