At her father’s gesture she stepped to the door—­and stopped.  The blood went first to her heart, and then flamed back into her face.  Her cheeks tingled.  Her hand fell lax from the door jamb, and she half staggered against it for support, limp and helpless.

There before her, and busily engaged in writing—­so busy that he had merely called out a careless invitation to enter when he heard the knock of what he presumed to be a chance caller—­there, perhaps a trifle pale, but certainly well, and very much himself, sat Dan Anderson!

“He’s alive!” whispered Constance to her heart.

“He’s going to live!”

The future delegate from the Territory had slunk away from the noisy street to pen some line of acknowledgment to his friend the sheriff of Blanco.  He had succeeded, so he reasoned with himself insistently; and yet a strange apathy, a sadness rather than exultation, enveloped him.  The world lay dull and gray around him.  The price of his success had been the sight of a face worth more to him than all else in the world.  He had won something, but had lost everything.  His hand stopped, his pencil fell upon the paper.  He looked up—­to see her standing at his door!

Dumb, unbelieving, he gazed and gazed.  She turned from red to pale, before his eyes, and still he could not speak.  He knew that in an instant the vision would fade away.

“Oh, why, hello!” said he at last, weakly.

“How—­that is, how do you do?” Constance said, flushing adorably again.

“I didn’t expect—­I didn’t know you were coming,” stammered Dan Anderson.

She chilled at this, but went on wonderingly.  “I got your letter—­” she began.

“Letter?  My letter—­what letter?”

Constance looked at him fairly now, agitation sufficiently gone to enable her to notice details.  She saw that Dan Anderson’s left arm was supported upon the table, but apparently not seriously injured.  And he had been writing—­with his right hand—­at this very moment!  She almost sank to the ground.  There had been some cruel misunderstanding!  Was she always to be repudiated, shamed?  She stood faltering, and would have turned away.

But by this time Dan Anderson’s own numbed faculties came back to him with a rush.  With a bound he was at her side, his right arm about her, holding her close, strong.

“Constance!” he cried.  “Constance!  You!  You!” He babbled many things, his cheek pressed against hers.  She could not speak.

“You see—­you see—­” exclaimed Dan Anderson, at length, half freeing her to look the more directly into her eyes, and to assure himself once more that it all was true—­“I didn’t understand at first.  Of course, I sent the letter.  I wrote it.  I couldn’t wait—­I couldn’t endure it any longer.  Darling, I couldn’t live without you—­and so I wrote, I wrote!  And you’ve come!”