“How does he generally punish a thief?” Reynolds smilingly asked as they walked slowly back to the cabin.  “I have stolen the greatest treasure he possesses, the heart of his only child.”

“That remains to be seen,” was the laughing reply.  “He may punish you, though, by inflicting upon you for life that which you have stolen.  Won’t that be punishment enough?”

CHAPTER XXX

THE UNMASKING

Frontier Samson was sitting before an open fire as Glen and Reynolds entered.  The flames were licking around the big sticks, lighting up the room, and playing fantastic tricks upon the walls and ceiling.  They fell, too, upon the prospector’s face, and had not the young couple been so full of their own happiness they would have noticed the sad, far-away look in the old man’s eyes.  He was huddled in his chair, but straightened himself suddenly up at the first sound of approaching footsteps.  By the time the young people were at his side, he was the same genial companion as of old.

“Having pleasant dreams?” Glen asked, as she took a seat by his side, while Reynolds sat opposite.

“Evenin’ dreams, Miss,” Samson thoughtfully replied, as he looked into the girl’s bright, animated face, and intuitively divined the meaning of her happiness.  “They’re different from day-dreams, ye know, ‘specially when yer settin’ before a fire like this.  Things come to ye then which ye imagined ye had forgotten long ago.”

“You must have had some wonderful experiences in this land,” Reynolds remarked.  “And what scenes you have witnessed, especially in winter.  If only you were an artist or a poet, what masterpieces you could produce.”

Samson reached for his pipe, filled and lighted it in thoughtful silence.  Glen and Reynolds gazed into the fire, fascinated by the leaping, curling flames.  Their hearts were so filled with joy that they could think of little but their own overflowing happiness.

“Yes,” Samson at length began, “I have seen some wonderful sights, an’ no mistake.  I ain’t no artist nor poet as fer as puttin’ things on paper or canvas is consarned.  But it’s all here,” and he tapped his breast with the fingers of his right hand.  “When I hear the great mountains a-roarin’ at night when the wind is abroad, an’ at times listen to the breezes purrin’ down their sides, I tell ye I’m a poet then.  An’ at night, ‘specially in winter, when the moon is full an’ ridin’ aloft above the highest peaks, an’ the hull land is lit up with a wonderful glory, then I’m an artist.  I s’pose them things are all right in their way,” and the old man gave a deep sigh, as he looked wistfully into the fire.  “But they don’t altogether satisfy the soul.  One needs the touch of human nature, the bond of fellowship, an’ the warm fire of love to make life really worth livin’.  Now, I could tell ye about a man—­but thar, you two don’t want to hear a yarn from me to-night.  You’ve got other things to think about.”