The charm was beginning to wear off.  The sound of the singing creek and the wild wood noises were beginning to knock at his door.  He was beginning to long for the old, wild life—­the life of the wild man of the woods.  He was like a coyote in confinement, walking backward and forward at the bars seeking release.  He was a fish out of water gasping for its natural element, and his soul was languishing within him.

He made desperate but vain efforts to enjoy his beautiful environs, and for a long time he sustained the “bluff.”  The piano became a bore to him; its music was not half so sweet as the creek song.  The tapestry was not half so pleasing to the eye as the green foliage of the trees had been; his cement walk not so agreeable to his feet as had been the long, wild trail.  The “icties” which had cost him thousands of dollars became to him like so much junk, and his beautiful home became a prison—­so much does man become attached to mother earth.  Among all this junk one jewel still continued persistently to shine, however, and that gem was his wife; she was all he had left, next his heart, to balance against the thousands of dollars which he had squandered.  A man’s best comfort is his wife, and Hance had fallen into the trap in the usual man-like way.

His attraction for the modern in society had dwindled down to a single item—­his love for his wife; and between this fire, and the fire of the old life, he remained poised.  Of course it would be madness to suggest that she return with him to the woods and adopt the Adam and Eve mode of society, so he kept his skeleton securely locked up.

He had sold his farm for a song, but now he found it could not be re-bought for real money.  The situation was hopeless.  There was no retracing of steps.  But still the old sounds could not be divorced from his ears; and the old salt-pork barrel was an unpardonable culprit.  If he could only sit once again on the old stump which had not been hewn away in the centre of his dug-out, it would be a source of joy to him.  If he could only smoke the old kin-i-kin-nick pipe, his appetite would be satisfied.

One day he climbed into his auto and made a bee-line for the old ranch.  He would have a rock on that old stump if it should cause a scandal in society.  But the spot where the dug-out once stood was now bare.  The cabin had been burned to the ground by the new proprietors.  He went home like a whipped cur.  A link in his beautiful past had vanished.  An impassable chasm, of his own making, yawned between him and his desire, and he cursed the day which lured him away from his natural, green pastures.

One day he disappeared entirely, and when he did not return for several days, and his wife was insane with grief, a search party was sent out in quest of him.  They found him camping on the old trail, dressed in his aboriginal attire, eating beans and bacon with his knife, and chewing venison Indian fashion.