She had but little compunction over his self-sacrificing mood.  It was perfectly clear that by quiet, manly devotion he proposed to help “time heal the wound” made by that “idiot” at Santa Barbara, and she that she could gradually reveal to him so much improvement that equanimity and at last hope would find a place in his mind.

They parted Monday morning with a brief, strong pressure of hands, which Graydon felt conveyed volumes of sympathy and mutual understanding.  She had said that he could write to her, and he found he had so much to say that he had to put a strong constraint upon himself.

Mr. Muir had watched them curiously during his stay in the mountains, and felt that something had occurred which he could not fathom.  Graydon’s manner at parting and since, during business hours, had confirmed this impression.  He was almost as grave and reticent as the banker himself, and the latter began to chafe and grow irritable over the problem which he was bent on seeing solved in but one way.  He looked askance and discontentedly at Graydon during dinner in the evening.  When they were alone he was fidgety and rather curt in his remarks.  At last he burst out, “Confound it!  What has happened between you and Madge?”

“She has refused me, that’s all,” was the quiet reply.

Mr. Muir gave a low whistle.

“Oh, I understood you the other evening,” resumed Graydon.  “The phenomenal penetration on which you so pride yourself is at fault for once.”

The banker was so nonplused that he permitted his cigar to go out, but he soon reached the conclusion, “He has bungled.”  “Well,” he asked at last, “what do you propose to do?”

“To be to her all that she will ever permit, and die a bachelor for her sake if I must.”

Mr. Muir lighted his Havana again and puffed in silence for a while, then said, “I like that.  Your purpose is clearly defined.  In business and everything else there is solid comfort in knowing what you can depend upon.”

Madge’s replies to Graydon’s letters were scarcely more than notes, but they were breezy little affairs, fragrant with the breath of the mountains, and had an excellent tonic effect in the hot city.  They usually contained a description of what she had seen or of some locality visited.  On one occasion she wrote: 

“Late in the afternoon there had been a shower, not gentle and pattering, but one of those frightful, passionate outbursts which are not infrequent in these mountains.  The wind appeared to drive black masses of clouds from all directions save one, which, meeting over the height occupied by the hotel, discharged torrents of rain.  At last the wind left the writhing trees in peace, and carried the deeply shadowing cloud away beyond the hills.  The sun broke forth, and nature began some magic work.  Calling the mist fairies to her aid, she gathered from every ravine and clove delicate airy clouds, which formed a large