Bruce was twenty-seven, and his mother was still his ideal of womanhood. He doubted if there were another like her in all the world. Certainly he never had seen one who in the least approached her. He remembered her vividly, the grave, gray, comprehending eyes, the long braids of hair which lay like thick new hempen rope upon the white counterpane. His lack of a substantial education--a college education--was a sore spot with him which did not become less sore with time. If she had lived he was sure it would have been different. With his mother to intercede for him he knew that he would have had it. After her death his father grew more taciturn, more impatient, more bent on preparing him to follow in his footsteps, regardless of his inclinations. The "lickings" became more frequent, for he seemed only to see his mistakes and childish faults. The culmination had come when he had asked to be allowed to leave the country school where he rode daily, and attend the better one in the nearest village, which necessitated boarding. After nerving himself for days to ask permission, he had been refused flatly. "What do you think I'm made of--money?" his father had demanded. "You'll stay where you are until you've learned to read, and write, and figure: then you'll help me with the cattle. Next thing you'll be wantin' to play a flute or the piano." He thought of his father always with hardness and unforgiveness, for he realized now, as he had not at the time he ran away from home, what the thousands of acres, the great herd of sleek cattle, meant--the fortune that they represented. "He could have so well afforded it," Bruce often mused bitterly. "And it's all I would have asked of him. I didn't come into the world because I wanted to come, and he owed it to me--my chance!" The flakes of snow which fell at first and clung tenaciously to Bruce's dark-blue flannel shirt were soft and wet, so much so that they were almost drops of rain, but soon they hardened and bounced and rattled as they began to fall faster. As he threw an armful of wood behind the sheet-iron camp stove, Bruce gave a disparaging poke at a pan of yeast bread set to rise. "Slim and I will have to take this dough to bed with us to keep it warm if it turns much colder. Everything's going to freeze up stiff as a snake. Never remember it as cold as this the first storm. Well, I'll get a pail of water, then let her come." He added uneasily: "I wish Slim would get in." His simple preparations were soon complete, and when he closed the heavy door of whip-sawed lumber it was necessary to light the small kerosene lamp, although the dollar watch ticking on its nail said the hour was but four-thirty. He eyed a pile of soiled dishes in disgust, then set a lard bucket of water to heat.