“Where are you going?” he inquired, inquisitively.

“I’m going to see Mrs. Andrews,” she replied.

“No, you’re not!” he declared, quickly, with a flash.

Columbine felt a queer sensation deep within her, a hot little gathering that seemed foreign to her physical being, and ready to burst out.  Of late it had stirred in her at words or acts of Jack Belllounds.  She gazed steadily at him, and he returned her look with interest.  What he was thinking she had no idea of, but for herself it was a recurrence and an emphasis of the fact that she seemed growing farther away from this young man she had to marry.  The weeks since his arrival had been the most worrisome she could remember.

“I am going,” she replied, slowly.

“No!” he replied, violently.  “I won’t have you running off down there to—­to gossip with that Andrews woman.”

“Oh, you won’t?” inquired Columbine, very quietly.  How little he understood her!

“That’s what I said.”

“You’re not my boss yet, Mister Jack Belllounds,” she flashed, her spirit rising.  He could irritate her as no one else.

“I soon will be.  And what’s a matter of a week or a month?” he went on, calming down a little.

“I’ve promised, yes,” she said, feeling her face blanch, “and I keep my promises....  But I didn’t say when.  If you talk like that to me it might be a good many weeks—­or—­or months before I name the day.”

“Columbine!” he cried, as she turned away.  There was genuine distress in his voice.  Columbine felt again an assurance that had troubled her.  No matter how she was reacting to this new relation, it seemed a fearful truth that Jack was really falling in love with her.  This time she did not soften.

“I’ll call dad to make you stay home,” he burst out again, his temper rising.

Columbine wheeled as on a pivot.

“If you do you’ve got less sense than I thought.”

[Illustration:  “I know why you’re going.  It’s to see that club-footed cowboy Moore!...  Don’t let me catch you with him.”]

Passion claimed him then.

“I know why you’re going.  It’s to see that club-footed cowboy Moore!...  Don’t let me catch you with him!”

Columbine turned her back upon Belllounds and swung away, every pulse in her throbbing and smarting.  She hurried on into the road.  She wanted to run, not to get out of sight or hearing, but to fly from something, she knew not what.

“Oh! it’s more than his temper!” she cried, hot tears in her eyes.  “He’s mean—­mean—­MEAN!  What’s the use of me denying that—­any more—­just because I love dad?...  My life will be wretched....  It is wretched!”

Her anger did not last long, nor did her resentment.  She reproached herself for the tart replies that had inflamed Jack.  Never again would she forget herself!

“But he—­he makes me furious,” she cried, in sudden excuse for herself.  “What did he say?  ’That club-footed cowboy Moore’!...  Oh, that was vile.  He’s heard, then, that poor Wilson has a bad foot, perhaps permanently crippled....  If it’s true....  But why should he yell that he knew I wanted to see Wilson?...  I did not! I do not....  Oh, but I do, I do!”