For it was in such dreams that Katherine Colebrooke had figured ever since Peter could remember.  For years, indeed—­and Judith knew it!—­he had stood, tame and tractable, waiting for Chloe to throw her dainty lariat.  But Chloe had intimated that her graceful fingers were engaged with the inkpot and her head with schemes for further sonneting.  Chloe was becoming famous.  To Peter, who was unmodern, there was little to be gained in arguing against a state of affairs so crassly absurd as career-getting for women.  At such seasons it behooved sane men to pray for patience rather than the gift of tongues.  When the disheartened fair should weary of the phantom pursuit, then might the man of patience have his little day.  Peter winced at the picture.  To the world he knew that his long waiting on the brink of the bog, while his ambitious lady floundered after false lights, was, in truth, no more impressive a spectacle than the anguished squawking of a hen who watches a brood of ducklings, of her own hatching, try their luck in the pond.

And there was Judith the great-hearted, Judith who was as inspiring as a breath of hill air, Judith with no thought of careers beyond the loyal doing of her woman’s part, Judith, trusty and loyal—­and Judith with that accursed family connection!

Peter tightened his cinch and turned his horse westward.  The stars had grown dim in the sky.  The world that the night before had seemed to float in a silvery effulgence looked gray and old.  The cabin in the valley flaunted its wretched squalor, like a beggar seeking alms on the highway.  Riding by, Peter lifted his sombrero.  “Sweet dreams, gentle lady!” He dug the rowel into his horse’s side and began his day at no laggard pace.  Nor did he spare his horse in the miles that lay between him and breakfast.  The beast would have no more work to do that day, when once he reached camp, and Peter was not in his tenderest mood as he spurred through the gray of the morning.  The pale, chastened world was all his own at this hour.  Not a creature was stirring.  The mountains, the valleys, the softly huddled hills slept in the deep hush that is just before the dawn.  He looked about with questioning eyes.  Last night this very road had been a pale silver thread winding from the mountain crests into a world of dreams.  To-day it was but a trail across the range.  “Where are the snows of yester year?” he quoted, with a certain early-morning grimness.  At heart he was half inclined to believe Judith responsible for the vanished world; Judith, Judith—­he was riding away from her as fast as his horse could gallop, and yet his thoughts perversely lingered about the cabin in the valley.

After a couple of hours’ hard riding he could dimly make out specks moving on that huge background of space, and presently his horse neighed and put fresh spirit into his gait, recognizing his fellows in moving dots on the vast perspective.  And being a beast of some intelligence, for all his heavy-footed failings, he reasoned that food and rest would soon be his portion.  Peter had no further use for the rowel.