Mrs. Reynolds had not changed at all in the three years, but Cora had grown handsomer and seemed much less timid, though she blushed vividly as Mose shook her hand. "I'm glad to see you back," she said. Moved by an unusual emotion, Mose replied: "You haven't pined away any." "Pined!" exclaimed her mother. "Well, I should say not. You should see her when Jim Haynes----" "Mother!" called the girl sharply, and Pink, now a beautiful child of eight, came opportunely into the room and drew the conversation to herself. As Mose, with Pink at his knee, sat watching the two women moving about the table, a half-formed resolution arose in his brain. He was weary of wandering, weary of loneliness. This comfortable, homely room, this tender little form in his arms, made an appeal to him which was as powerful as it was unexpected. He had lived so long in his blanket, with only Kintuck for company, that at this moment it seemed as if these were the best things to do--to stay with Reynolds, to make Cora happy, and to rest. He had seen all phases of wild life and had carried out his plans to see the wonders of America. He had crossed the Painted Desert and camped beside the Colorado in the greatest canon in the world. He had watched the Mokis while they danced with live rattlesnakes held between their lips. He had explored the cliff-dwellings of the Navajo country and had looked upon the sea of peaks which tumbles away in measureless majesty from Uncompahgre's eagle-crested dome. He had peered into the boiling springs of the Yellowstone, and had lifted his eyes to the white Tetons whose feet are set in a mystic lake, around which the loons laugh all the summer long. He knew the chiefs of a dozen tribes and was a welcome guest among them. In his own mind he was no longer young--his youth was passing, perhaps the time had come to settle down. Cora turned suddenly from the table, where she stood arranging the plates and knives and forks with a pleasant bustle, and said: "O Mose! we've got two or three letters for you. We've had 'em ever so long--I don't suppose they will be of much good to you now. I'll get them for you." "They look old," he said as he took them from her hand. "They look as if they'd been through the war." The first was from his father, the second from Jack, and the third in a woman's hand--could only be Mary's. He stared at it--almost afraid to open it in the presence of the family. He read the one from his father first, because he conceived it less important, and because he feared the other.