"With the third day came relief. All at once he felt fearfully tired, and fell asleep where he stood. Several of the crew carried him to a darkened room, and there he slept as a dumb animal sleeps. When he awoke, he was himself again; his mind was clear and cool. He looked the future squarely in the face, now, and clearly, as if a finger pointed, he saw the path that was marked for him. He must go his way--and she must go hers. Perhaps, after four years or more--but the future was God's." The boy paused. The lights of the town were nearing, now; but he still looked out over the moon-kissed prairie. "The rest you know. The dreamer returned. The party scarcely knew him, for he seemed years older. There were but a few days more of camp life, and he spent most of the time with the girl. Like a malefactor out on bail, he was painting a picture for the future. He thought he had conquered himself--but he hadn't. It was the same old struggle. Was not love more than ambition or wealth? Had he not earned the right to speak? But something held him back. If justice to himself, was it justice to the girl? Conscience said 'No.' It was hard--no one knows how hard--but he said nothing." Once more he turned to his companion, in his voice the tenderness of a life-long passion. "This is the story: did the boy do right?" A life's work--greater than a life itself, hung on the answer to that question. The girl understood it all. She had always known that she liked him; but now--now--As he had told his story, she had felt, first, pity, and then something else; something incomparably sweeter; something that made her heart beat wildly, that seemed almost to choke her with its ecstasy. He loved her--had loved her all these years! He belonged to her--and his future lay in her hands. His future! The thought fell upon her new-found happiness with the suddenness of a blow. She could keep him, but had she the right to do so? She saw in him something that he did not suspect--and that something was genius. She knew he had the ability to make for himself a name that would stand among the great names of the earth. Then, did his life really belong to her? Did it not rather belong to himself and to the world? She experienced a struggle, fierce as he himself had fought. And the boy sat silent, tense, waiting for her answer. Yes, she must give him up; she would be brave. She started to speak, but the words would not come. Suddenly she buried her face in her hands, while the glistening brown head trembled with her sobs. It was the last drop to the cup overflowing. A second, and then, his arms were around her. The touch was electrifying--it was oblivion--it was heaven--it was--but only a young lover knows what. "You have answered," said the boy. "God forgive me--but I can't go away now." Thus Fate sported with two lives. THE MADNESS OF WHISTLING WINGS CHAPTER I--SANDFORD THE EXEMPLARY