As she stared desperately, her mind roused to frantic denials, her eyes straining to banish this monstrous figment, the door of the cabin opened and Ewing came out. She sprang forward with an impulse to shatter the illusion by some quick movement. But her eyes still beheld him, bareheaded, turning his face up to the sun. He stretched his arms and drew deep breaths. He had never seemed so tall. His look had a kind of triumph in it. She swayed under the shock of the thing, feeling herself grow faint. Cooney had betrayed her. Some time in the night, at one of those confusing bends in the trail, he had turned. He had brought her home. Ewing's head had turned as she moved; his eyes were on her. She saw the rapt gladness in his face and beheld him approach her across the clearing. She managed another step or two and gained the support of a felled tree. As Ewing came up she essayed a little smile of nonchalance. "Cooney--" she begun. The word came itself, but she felt easier under the sound of her own voice and went on--"Cooney came with me. I didn't go at all. I rode--but you see--" She beamed on him with explanatory embarrassment--"I took an early morning ride--it was so pleasant--and I thought I was lost--indeed I did, and I took off his saddle. I left it right there--" She pointed with the literal exactness of a child in its narrative of adventure--"right there behind that tree, and then I found I was--found I was closer to home than I thought." He had not seemed to hear her, but stood looking narrowly, as if she were still far away. Gradually his eyes widened, as if he were drawing her close to him. He took a step toward her, with arms half raised. "I'm so ashamed--" he muttered; "but you--you let me think that." His voice brought her to sudden agonized alarm. The blood ebbed from her face and she almost staggered toward him. "Did you do it--do _that_?" she whispered, ready to fall. "No; I found out in time. I found out everything--everything you didn't tell me." He was shaken with longing, yet shamed into restraint before her. "I'm so ashamed--I came as soon as I could to tell you. I rode all night to be here, to tell you as soon as I could." "You didn't do it--you didn't do it?" she insisted pitifully. "I stopped in time." She muttered this over and over, and at last the truth struggled into her chilled brain. "You dear, dear fool!" she said with a little sobbing laugh. Again his arms were half raised to her, but she turned swiftly and ran to Cooney, who had fallen to grazing a little way off, throwing her arms about his neck and weeping out incoherent words of endearment. Ewing gathered his strength, like a wrestler who has been pressed to the ground, but lifts himself with infinite effort, and went resolutely toward her. Gently he unclasped her arms from Cooney's neck. THE END A STORY OF AMERICAN LIFE David Harum.