A delighted sense of gratitude replaced Jeff's every other feeling. "Say," he cried, with a sudden vehemence, "you've good grit, Evie. You're a bully soul. You're the sort would set a man crazy to corral the world, and set it at your feet. I'll get right back quick. I won't wait an hour more than I need." Elvine's decision had been forced upon her, but once having taken it she threw something more into her words than the mere encouragement that seemed necessary. "No," she declared, her eyes shining. "You're not even to hurry back. Get right through with your work, or any schemes you have to arrange while you're there, before you think of me." Then her voice softened to a great tenderness. "I want you to win through in everything you undertake, Jeff. I don't care now for a thing else in the world. You do believe that, don't you? Oh, Jeff, I want you always to believe that. Whatever may come in our life together, I want you always to know I love you better--better than the whole world, and your--your happiness is just my happiness. Without your happiness I can never be happy. It was selfishness made me demur at first. You believe that, don't you? I have always been very, very selfish. It was nothing else. You don't think there was anything else, do you? I sort of feel I'd always have you in my sight, near me. I'm happy then, because I feel nothing can ever come between us. When you're away, I don't know, but it sort of seems as if shadows grow up threatening me. I felt that way this morning. I felt that way when I read your letter. But these things just shan't be. I love you with all that's in me, and--you love me. Nothing shall ever come between us. Say that's so, Jeff. Nothing. Nothing." The man responded with all a lover's impetuosity. He gave her to the full that reassurance of which she stood in need. But for all his sincerity it was as useless as if it had been left unspoken. The letter from Dug McFarlane at Orrville, the recognition of her by the man Sikkem Bruce, had warned Elvine that the sands of her time of happiness were running out. She felt she knew that a gape of despair was already yawning at her feet. CHAPTER XVIII DUG MCFARLANE The aroma of cigars blended delightfully with the fragrant evening air. Through the cool green lacing of the creeper the sun poured the last of its golden rays into the wide stoop. The mists were already gathering upon the lower slopes of the hills, and a deep purpling seemed to be steadily embracing the whole of the great mountain range. Two men were lounging comfortably in wide wicker chairs on the veranda. They were resting bodies that rarely knew fatigue in the strenuous life that was theirs. But then the day was closing, and one of them had come a long saddle journey. Whisky stood on a table at the elbow of Dug McFarlane. Jeffrey Masters had coffee near by.