“I'm glad you've come back,” she said. Then sinking down suddenly on the floor at his feet, she threw her apron over her head and sobbed aloud. The father and mother wept too. Joe sat still, with a great and bitter longing in his smitten countenance, but did not dare to comfort her. “Pick her up, Joe,” said Mr. Tully. “Take hold of her, man, and show her you've got a whole heart if you ain't got but one eye.” It was understood, as Ruth Mary meant that it should be, without more words, that Enselman's misfortune would make no difference in their old relation. The difference it had made in that new resolve born of the winter's struggle she told to no one; for to no one had she confided her resolve. * * * * * Joe stayed two weeks at the ranch, and was comforted into a semblance of his former hardy cheerfulness. But Ruth Mary knew that he was not happy. One evening he asked her to go with him down the high shore path. He told her that he was going to town the next day on business that might keep him absent about a fortnight, and entreated her to think well of her promise to him, for that on his return he should expect its fulfillment. For God's sake he begged her to let no pity for his misfortune blind her to the true nature of her feeling for him. He held her close to his heart and kissed her many times. Did she love him so--and so?--he asked. Ruth Mary, trembling, said she did not know. How could she help knowing? he demanded passionately. Had her thoughts been with him all winter, as his had been with her? Had she looked up the river towards the hills where he was staying so long and wished for him, as he had gazed southward into the valleys many and many a day, longing for the sweet blue eyes of his little girl so far away? Alas, Ruth Mary! She gazed almost wildly into his stricken face, distorted by the anguish of his great love and his great dread. She wished that she were dead. There seemed no other way out of her trouble. The next morning, before she was dressed, Enselman rode away, and her father went with him. She was alone, now, in the midst of the hills she loved--alone as she would never be again. She foresaw that she would not have the strength to lay that last blow upon her faithful old friend,--the crushing blow that perfect truth demanded. Her tenderness was greater than her truth. * * * * *