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Even Claude admitted the reality of the disease by repeating: “Well, you have got it bad. Your symptoms are about the worst ever. You’re locoed for fair. You’ll be stepping high and wide if you don’t watch out.”

In some mysterious way the whole valley now shared in a knowledge of the raid on the post-office, as well as in an understanding of Roy’s “throw-down” by the postmaster’s niece, and the expression of this interest in his affairs at last drove the young rancher to desperation. He decided to leave the state. “I’m going to Nome,” he said to his brothers one day.

“Pious thought,” declared Claude. “The climate may freeze this poison out of you. Why, sure–go! You’re no good on earth here.”

Roy did not tell him or his mother that he intended to go by way of the Springs, in the wish to catch one last glimpse of his loved one before setting out for the far northland. To speak with her was beyond his hope. No, all he expected was a chance glimpse of her in the street, the gleam of her face in the garden. “Perhaps I may pass her gate at night, and see her at the window.”

IV

The town to him was a maze of bewildering complexity and magnificence, and he wandered about for a day in awkward silence, hesitating to inquire the way to the Converse home. He found it at last, a pretty cottage standing on a broad terrace, amid trees and vines vivid with the autumn hues; and if any thought of asking Lida to exchange it for a shack on a ranch still lingered in his mind, it was instantly wiped out by his first glance at the place.

He walked by on the opposite side of the street, and climbed the mesa back of the house to spy upon it from the rear, hoping to detect his loved one walking about under the pear-trees. But she did not appear. After an hour or so he came down and paced back and forth with eyes on the gate, unable to leave the street till his soul was fed by one look at her.

As the sun sank, and the dusk began to come on, he grew a little more reckless of being recognized, and, crossing the way, continued to sentinel the gate. He was passing it for the fourth time when Lida came out upon the porch with an older woman. She looked at the stranger curiously, but did not recognize him. She wore a hat, and was plainly about to go for a walk.

Roy knew he ought to hurry away, but he did not. On the contrary, he shamelessly met her with a solemn, husky-voiced greeting. “Hello, girl! How’s Uncle Dan?”

She started back in alarm, then flushed as she recognized him. “How dare you speak to me–like that!”

In this moment, as he looked into her face, his courage began to come back to him. “Why didn’t you answer my letters?” he asked, putting her on defense.

“What business had you to write to me? I told you I would not answer.”

“No, you didn’t; you only said you wouldn’t speak to me again.”

“Well, you knew what I meant,” she replied, with less asperity.

Someway these slight concessions brought back his audacity, his power of defense. “You bet I did; but what difference does that make to a sick man? Oh, I’ve had a time! I’m no use to the world since you left. I told you the truth–you’re my sun, moon, and stars, and I’ve come down to say it just once more before I pull out for Alaska. I’m going to quit the state. The whole valley is on to my case of loco, and I’m due at the north pole. I’ve come to say good-by. Here’s where I take my congee.”

She read something desperate in the tone of his voice. “What do you mean? You aren’t really leaving?”