He knew what she meant, well enough. For the last two days he had been drinking again. On the night of the dance he had barely kept within the limit of decent behavior. He had read Val's complete understanding and her disgust the morning after--and since then they had barely spoken except when speech was necessary. Oh, he knew what she meant! He stood for another minute, and she let go his arm and stood apart, watching his face. A good deal depended upon the next minute, and they both knew it, and hardly breathed. His hand went slowly into a deep pocket of his overcoat, his fingers closed over something, and drew it reluctantly to the light. Shamefaced, he held it up for her to see--a flat bottle of generous size, full to within a inch of the cork with a pale, yellow liquid. “There--take it, and break it into a million pieces,” he said huskily. “I'll try again.” Her yellow-brown eyes darkened perceptibly. “Manley Fleetwood, _you_ must throw it away. This is your fight--be a man and _fight_.” “Well--there! May God damn me forever if I touch liquor again! I'm through with the stuff for keeps!” He held the bottle high, without looking at it, and sent it crashing against the stable door. “Manley!” She stopped her ears, aghast at his words, but for all that her eyes were ashine. She went up to him and put her arms around him. “Now we can start all over again,” she said. “We'll count our lives from this minute, dear, and we'll keep them clean and happy. Oh, I'm so glad! So glad and so proud, dear!” Kent had got half-way down the path from the house; he stopped when Manley threw the bottle, and waited. Now he turned abruptly and retraced his steps, and he did not look particularly happy, though he had been smiling when he left the kitchen. Arline turned from the window as he entered. “Looks like Man has swore off ag'in,” she observed dryly. “Well, let's hope 'n' pray he stays swore off.” CHAPTER XV. A COMPACT The blackened prairie was fast hiding the mark of its fire torture under a cloak of tender new grass, vividly green as a freshly watered, well-kept lawn. Meadow larks hopped here and there, searching long for a sheltered nesting place, and missing the weeds where they were wont to sway and swell their yellow breasts and sing at the sun. They sang just as happily, however, on their short, low flights over the levels, or sitting upon gray, half-buried boulders upon some barren hilltop. Spring had come with lavish warmth. The smoke of burning ranges, the bleak winter with its sweeping storms of snow and wind, were pushed info the past, half forgotten in this new heaven and new earth, when men were glad simply because they were alive.