She paused for him to reply. His shoulders quivered, but he remained silent. She went on soothingly: "You are all unstrung. The shock was too sudden. It must have been a terrible one! Won't you tell me about it? Perhaps that will make you feel better." "As if anything could when I am ruined, utterly ruined!" he moaned. "But how? Please tell me," she urged. Slowly he raised his haggard face and looked up at her. There could be no question but that she was full of sincere sympathy and concern for him. Her eyes shone upon him with all the motherly tenderness that any good woman, however young, has in her heart for those who suffer. "It's all in this--this letter," he muttered brokenly. "Expected my remittance in it--Got ruin! ruin!" "It had been opened," suggested the girl. "Perhaps those who took your outfit also took your remittance money." "No, there wasn't any--not a cent! My valet had my written instructions to open it and cash the money orders--that weren't there! He and the guide--they came back. The letter had told them all, all! I was not here. They took the outfit--the money--divided it. Left that note--they had no more use for me.... Ruined! utterly ruined!" "But if you wish us to run them down?" "No--good riddance! What they took is less than what I owed them. Ungrateful scoundrels!" "That's it!" approved the girl. "Get up your spunk. Cuss, if you like. Rip loose, good and hard. It will ease you off." "It's no use," he groaned, slumping back into his posture of abject dejection. "Oh, come, now!" she encouraged. "You're a young, healthy man. What if you have been bucked off this time? There are lots other hawsses in Life's corral." He hung his head lower. She went on, in an altered tone: "Mr. Ashton, it is evident you have been bred as a gentleman. I wish you to give me your word that you will not put an end to yourself." There was a prolonged pause. At last he stirred as if uneasy under her steady gaze. He could not see her eyes, yet he seemed to feel them. Twice he started to speak, but checked himself and hesitated. The third time he muttered a reluctant, "I--will not." "Good! I have your word," she replied. "I must go now. When you've shaken yourself together a bit, come down to the ranch. You ride down Dry Fork to the junction, and then three miles up Plum Creek. Daddy'll be glad to put you up a few days until you can think of what to do to get a new start. Good-by!" She went back to her horse as lightfooted and graceful as an antelope. But he did not look up after her, nor did he respond to her cordial parting. For a long time after she rode away he continued to crouch as she had left him, motionless, almost torpid with the immensity of his loss.