Before him was memory’s moving panorama of a splendid past. Out of the many pictures--plainer than all the rest--rose the face of the man who had befriended him; the one to whom he owed all he had ever been, or enjoyed. The one but for whom he would have been left, when a boy, to the chill charity of strangers. From that generous hand he had received an education befitting the heir to great wealth, and that noble heart had given such love and care as few sons receive from a parent. He could now, in recollection, see the austere face of his guardian softening into affectionate smiles as his tender gaze fell on his two wards--himself, and the pretty, willful Mildred. Only they whom he so fondly loved knew the great depths of tenderness and gentleness in his nature. It stung Austin now to think of it; it shamed him as well. * * * * * And was he--this coward hiding in the mountains of the West, leading a hateful existence hunting wild horses for the few dollars that the hides would bring, that he might be able to buy the necessaries of life, since he had failed to get work in any other calling--was he the one whom John Morton had once loved and trusted? He shuddered with disgust; no man could feel a greater contempt for him, than he felt for himself. He rose abruptly and walked to the opening of the tent, looking out on the sweep of sagebrush-covered foothills about him. It was useless to think of the past, or to give way to remorse or idle regrets. What was done could not be undone. He must arrange, as best he could, for the future years, and provide for the needs of the present. He must do his best in caring for and protecting the one for whom this life was harder--far harder--than for himself. He turned his back on the dreary landscape before him, and came back into the tent, busying himself about camp duties till the other awoke. And the young eyes--wistful and sad--that kept seeking Austin’s, saw no trace of the heartache and remorse he was bravely trying to bury.