* * * * *

When next day the long-deferred hour came Columbine selected a horse that she could run, and she rode up the winding valley swift as the wind.  But at the aspen grove, where Wade’s keen, gentle voice had given her secret life, she suffered a reaction that made her halt and ascend the slope very slowly and with many stops.

Sight of Wade’s horse haltered near the cabin relieved Columbine somewhat of a gathering might of emotion.  The hunter would be inside and so she would not be compelled at once to confess her secret.  This expectancy gave impetus to her lagging steps.  Before she reached the open door she called out.

“Collie, you’re late,” answered Wilson, with both joy and reproach, as she entered.  The cowboy lay upon his bed, and he was alone in the room.

“Oh!...  Where is Ben?” exclaimed Columbine.

“He was here.  He cooked my dinner.  We waited, but you never came.  The dinner got cold.  I made sure you’d backed out—­weren’t coming at all—­and I couldn’t eat....  Wade said he knew you’d come.  He went off with the hounds, somewhere ... and oh, Collie, it’s all right now!”

Columbine walked to his bedside and looked down upon him with a feeling as if some giant hand was tugging at her heart.  He looked better.  The swelling and redness of his face were less marked.  And at that moment no pain shadowed his eyes.  They were soft, dark, eloquent.  If Columbine had not come with her avowed resolution and desire to unburden her heart she would have found that look in his eyes a desperately hard one to resist.  Had it ever shone there before?  Blind she had been.

“You’re better,” she said, happily.

“Sure—­now.  But I had a bad night.  Didn’t sleep till near daylight.  Wade found me asleep....  Collie, it’s good of you to come.  You look so—­so wonderful!  I never saw your face glow like that.  And your eyes—­oh!”

“You think I’m pretty, then?” she asked, dreamily, not occupied at all with that thought.

He uttered a contemptuous laugh.

“Come closer,” he said, reaching for her with a clumsy bandaged hand.

Down upon her knees Columbine fell.  Both hands flew to cover her face.  And as she swayed forward she shook violently, and there escaped her lips a little, muffled sound.

“Why—­Collie!” cried Moore, astounded.  “Good Heavens!  Don’t cry!  I—­I didn’t mean anything.  I only wanted to feel you—­touch your hand.”

“Here,” she answered, blindly holding out her hand, groping for his till she found it.  Her other was still pressed to her eyes.  One moment longer would Columbine keep her secret—­hide her eyes—­revel in the unutterable joy and sadness of this crisis that could come to a woman only once.

“What in the world?” ejaculated the cowboy, now bewildered.  But he possessed himself of the trembling hand offered.  “Collie, you act so strange....  You’re not crying!...  Am I only locoed, or flighty, or what?  Dear, look at me.”