“That,” he explained to Constance as he turned, “is the ‘Annie Laurie’ record of the Heart’s Desire grand opera.  The season is now over.”  The girl did not understand, but he lost the hurt look in her eyes.  Irritated, he did not hear her soul call out to him.

“It’s the luckiest thing in the world that you happen to be here.”  Mr. Ellsworth took up again the idea that was foremost in his mind.  “You fit in like the wheels in a clock.  We’re going to run our railroad up into your town—­I don’t mind saying that right here—­and we’re going to give you plenty of law business, Mr. Anderson; that is to say, if you want it, and will take it.”

“Thank you,” said Dan Anderson, quietly.  But now in spite of himself he felt his heart leap suddenly in hope.  Suppose, after all, there should be for him, stranded in this out-of-the-way corner of the world, a chance for some sort of business success?  Suppose that there should be, after all, some work for him to do?  Suppose that, after all, he should succeed—­that, after all, life might yet unfold before him as he had dreamed and planned!  Unconsciously he stole a glance at the gray-clad figure on the blanket roll.

Constance sat cool, sweet, delicate but vital, refreshing to look upon, her gray skirt folded across her knees, the patent-leather tips of her little shoes buried in the carpet spread by the forest conifers.  He could just catch the curve of her cheek and chin, the droop of the long lashes which he knew so well.  Ah, if he could only go to her and tell her the absolute truth—­if only it could be right for him, all his life, to tell her the truth, to tell her of his reverence, his loyalty, his love, through all these years!  If, indeed, this opportunity should come to him, might not all of this one day be possible?  He set his mind to his work, even as the girl held her heart to its waiting.

There came the sound of a distant whistle approaching up the trail, and ere long Tom Osby appeared, stumbling along in his pigeon-toed way, his rifle in the crook of his arm.  Tom saluted the strangers briefly, and leaned his rifle against the wagon wheel.  Dan Anderson made known the names of the visitors, and Tom immediately put in action his own notions of hospitality.  Stepping to the wagon side he fished out a kerosene can, stoppered with a potato stuck on the spout.  He removed the potato, picked up a tin cup, and proceeded calmly to pour out a generous portion.

“I always carry my liquor this way, gentlemen,” said he, “because it’s convenient to pour in the dark, and ain’t so apt to get spilled.  This here liquor sometimes makes folks forget their geogerphy.  ‘Missin’ me one place, search another,’ as Walt Whitman says.  If a fellow gets a drink of this, he may take to the tall trees, or he may run straight on out of the country.  You never can tell.  Drink hearty.”

Ellsworth and Barkley, for the sake of complacency, complied with such show of pleasure as they could muster.