In the early morning after the return of the men from their unsuccessful man hunt, Gordon, gray and haggard from loss of sleep and from hard thought, stepped out into the kitchen to stretch his cramped limbs. He stumbled over the figure of Langford prone upon the floor, dead asleep in utter exhaustion. He smiled understandingly and opened the outer door quietly, hoping he had not aroused the worn-out Boss. The air was fresh and cool, with a hint of Autumn sharpness, and a premature Indian Summer haze, that softened the gauntness of the landscape, and made the distances blue and rest-giving. He felt the need of invigoration after his night’s vigil, and struck off down the road with long strides, in pleasant anticipation of a coming appetite for breakfast. Thus it was that Langford, struggling to a sitting posture, rubbing his heavy eyes with a dim consciousness that he had been disturbed, and wondering drowsily why he was so stupid, felt something seeping through his senses that told him he did not do well to sleep. So he decided he would take a plunge into the cold artesian pond, and with such drastic measures banish once and for all the elusive yet all-pervading cobwebs which clung to him. Rising to his feet with unusual awkwardness, he looked with scorn upon the bare floor and accused it blindly and bitterly as the direct cause of the strange soreness that beset his whole anatomy. The lay of the floor had changed in a night. Where was he? He glanced helplessly about. Then he knew. Thus it was, that when Mary languidly opened her eyes a little later, it was the Boss who sat beside her and smiled reassuringly. “You have not slept a wink,” she cried, accusingly. “Indeed I have,” he said. “Three whole hours. I feel tip-top.” “You are—fibbing,” she said. “Your eyes look so tired, and your face is all worn.” His heart leaped with the joy of her solicitude. “You are wrong,” he laughed, teasingly. “I slept on the floor; and a good bed it was, too. No, Miss Williston, I am not ‘all in’ yet, by any means.” In his new consciousness, a new formality crept into his way of addressing her. She did not seem to notice it. “Forgive me for forgetting, last night,” she said, earnestly. “I was very selfish. I forgot that you had not slept for nearly two days, and were riding all the while in—our behalf. I forgot. I was tired, and I went to sleep. I want you to forgive me. I want you to believe that I do appreciate what you have done. My father—” “Don’t, don’t, little girl,” cried Langford, forgetting his new awe of her maidenhood in his pity for the stricken child. “My father,” she went on, steadily, “would thank you if he were here. I thank you, too, even if I did forget to think whether or no you and all the men had any sleep or anything to eat last night. Will you try to believe that I did not forget wittingly? I was so tired.”