"Yes."

"How old's th' boy?"

"Five."

"An' th' girl?"

"She'll soon be four."

"An' yer husband--he's livin'?"

"I should say so! I'm a very happy woman, Mr. Roeder. If only I were stronger!"

"Yer lookin' much better," he said, gravely, "than when you come. You'll be all right."

The moon began to come up scarlet beyond the eastern hills. The two watched it in silence. Kate had a feeling of guilt, as if she had been hurting some helpless thing.

"I was in hopes," he said, suddenly, in a voice that seemed abrupt and shrill, "thet you'd see fit t' stay here."

"Here in Helena? Oh, no!"

"I was thinkin' I'd offer you that two hundred thousand dollars, if you'd stay."

"Mr. Roeder! You don't mean-surely--"

"Why, yes. Why not?" He spoke rather doggedly. "I'll never see no other woman like you. You're different from others. How good you've been t'

me!"

"Good! I'm afraid I've been very bad--at least, very stupid."

"I say, now--your husband's good t' you, ain't he?"

"He is the kindest man that ever lived."

"Oh, well, I didn't know."

A rather awkward pause followed which was broken by Roeder.

"I don't see jest what I'm goin' t' do with that thar two hundred thousand dollars," he said, mournfully.

"Do with it? Why, live with it! Send some to your mother."

"Oh, I've done that. Five thousand dollars. It don't seem much here; but it'll seem a lot t' her. I'd send her more, only it would've bothered her."

"Then there is your house,--the house with the bath-room. But I suppose you'll have other rooms?"

Peter laughed a little in spite of himself.

"I guess I won't have a house," he said. "An' I couldn't make a garden alone."

"Hire a man to help you." Kate was trembling, but she kept talking gayly. She was praying that nothing very serious would happen. There was an undercurrent of sombreness in the man's manner that frightened her.

"I guess I'll jest have t' keep on dreamin' of that boy playin' with th'

roses."

"No, no," cried Kate; "he will come true some day! I know he'll come true."

Peter got up and stood by her chair.

"You don't know nothin' about it," he said. "You don't know, an' you can't know what it's bin t' me t' talk with you. Here I come out of a place where there ain't no sound but the water and the pines. Years come an' go. Still no sound. Only thinkin', thinkin', thinkin'! Missin' all th' things men care fur! Dreamin' of a time when I sh'd strike th' pile.

Then I seed home, wife, a boy, flowers, everythin'. You're so beautiful, an' you're so good. You've a way of pickin' a man's heart right out of him. First time I set my eyes on you I thought you were th' nicest thing I ever see! And how little you are! That hand of yours,--look at it,--it's like a leaf! An' how easy you smile. Up th' gulch we didn't smile; we laughed, but gen'ly because some one got in a fix. Then your voice! Ah, I've thought fur years that some day I might hear a voice like that! Don't you go! Sit still! I'm not blamin' you fur anythin'; but I may never, 's long's I live, find any one who will understand things th' way you understand 'em. Here! I tell you about that gulch an' you see that gulch. You know how th' rain sounded thar, an' how th'

shack looked, an' th' life I led, an' all th' thoughts I had, an' th'

long nights, an' th' times when--but never mind. I know you know it all.

I saw it in yer eyes. I tell you of mother, an' you see 'er. You know 'er old German face, an' 'er proud ways, an' her pride in me, an' how she would think I wuz awfully rich. An' you see how she would give out them linens, all marked fur my wife, an' how I would sit an' watch her doin' it, an'--you see everything. I know you do. I could feel you doin'

it. Then I say to myself: 'Here is th' one woman in th' world made fur me. Whatever I have, she shall have. I'll spend my life waitin' on her.

She'll tell me all th' things I ought t' know, an' hev missed knowin'; she'll read t' me; she'll be patient when she finds how dull I've grown.

And thar'll be th' boy--'"

He seized her hand and wrung it, and was gone. Kate saw him no more that night.

The next morning the major returned. Kate threw her arms around his neck and wept.

"I want the babies," she explained when the major showed his consternation. "Don't mind my crying. You ought to be used to seeing me cry by this time. I must get home, that's all. I must see Jack."

So that night they started.

At the door of the carriage stood Peter Roeder, waiting.

"I'm going t' ride down with you," he said. The major looked nonplussed.

Kate got in and the major followed.

"Come," she said to Roeder. He sat opposite and looked at her as if he would fasten her image on his mind.

"You remember," he said after a time, "that I told you I used t' dream of sittin' on the veranda of th' hotel and havin' nothin' t' do?"

"Yes."

"Well, I don't think I care fur it. I've had a month of it. I'm goin'

back up th' gulch."

"No!" cried Kate, instinctively reaching out her hands toward him.

"Why not? I guess you don't know me. I knew that somewhere I'd find a friend. I found that friend; an' now I'm alone again. It's pretty quiet up thar in the gulch; but I'll try it."

"No, no. Go to Europe; go to see your mother."

"I thought about that a good deal, a while ago. But I don't seem t' have no heart fur it now. I feel as if I'd be safer in th' gulch."