He let out a shout of boyish exultation and suddenly clasped her in his arms.  But there was nothing boyish in the way he handled her, in the almost savage evidence of possession.  “Collie, I’m mad about you,” he began, ardently.  “You never let me tell you.  And I’ve grown worse and worse.  To-day I—­when I saw you going down there—­where that Wilson Moore is—­I got terribly jealous.  I was sick.  I’d been glad to kill him!...  It made me see how I loved you.  Oh, I didn’t know.  But now ...  Oh, I’m mad for you!” He crushed her to him, unmindful of her struggles; his face and neck were red; his eyes on fire.  And he began trying to kiss her mouth, but failed, as she struggled desperately.  His kisses fell upon cheek and ear and hair.

“Let me—­go!” panted Columbine.  “You’ve no—­no—­Oh, you might have waited.”  Breaking from him, she fled, and got inside her room with the door almost closed, when his foot intercepted it.

Belllounds was half laughing his exultation, half furious at her escape, and altogether beside himself.

“No,” she replied, so violently that it appeared to awake him to the fact that there was some one besides himself to consider.

“Aw!” He heaved a deep sigh.  “All right.  I won’t try to get in.  Only listen....  Collie, don’t mind my—­my way of showing you how I felt.  Fact is, I went plumb off my head.  Is that any wonder, you—­you darling—­when I’ve been so scared you’d never have me?  Collie, I’ve felt that you were the one thing in the world I wanted most and would never get.  But now....  October first!  Listen.  I promise you I’ll not drink any more—­nor gamble—­nor nag dad for money.  I don’t like his way of running the ranch, but I’ll do it, as long as he lives.  I’ll even try to tolerate that club-footed cowboy’s brass in homesteading a ranch right under my nose.  I’ll—­I’ll do anything you ask of me.”

“Then—­please—­go away!” cried Columbine, with a sob.

When he was gone Columbine barred the door and threw herself upon her bed to shut out the light and to give vent to her surcharged emotions.  She wept like a girl whose youth was ending; and after the paroxysm had passed, leaving her weak and strangely changed, she tried to reason out what had happened to her.  Over and over again she named the appeal of the rancher, the sense of her duty, the decision she had reached, and the disgust and terror inspired in her by Jack Belllounds’s reception of her promise.  These were facts of the day and they had made of her a palpitating, unhappy creature, who nevertheless had been brave to face the rancher and confess that which she had scarce confessed to herself.  But now she trembled and cringed on the verge of a catastrophe that withheld its whole truth.

“I begin to see now,” she whispered, after the thought had come and gone and returned to change again.  “If Wilson had—­cared for me I—­I might have—­cared, too....  But I do—­care—­something.  I couldn’t lie to dad.  Only I’m not sure—­how much.  I never dreamed of—­of loving him, or any one.  It’s so strange.  All at once I feel old.  And I can’t understand these—­these feelings that shake me.”