So Parsons reflected, knowing, however, that he had not the courage to oppose Carrington. He feared Carrington; he had always feared him, but now his fear had become terror—and hate. For Parsons could still feel the man’s fingers at his throat; and as he sat there on the porch his own fingers stroked the spot, while in his heart flamed a great yearning for vengeance. * * * * * Marion Harlan had got up this morning feeling rather more interested in the big house than she had felt the day before—or upon any day that she had occupied it. She, like Parsons, had awakened with a presentiment of impending pleasure. But, unlike Parsons, she found it impossible to definitely select an outstanding incident or memory upon which to base her expectations. Her anticipations seemed to be broad and inclusive—like a clear, unobstructed sunset, with an effulgent glow that seemed to embrace the whole world, warming it, bringing a great peace. For upon this morning, suddenly awakening to the pure, white light that shone into her window, she was conscious of a feeling of satisfaction with life that was strange and foreign—a thing that she had never before experienced. Always there had been a shadow of the past to darken her vision of the future, but this morning that shadow seemed to have vanished. For a long time she could not understand, and she snuggled up in bed, her brow thoughtfully furrowed, trying to solve the mystery. It was not until she got up and was looking out of the window at the mighty basin in which—like a dot of brown in a lake of emerald green—clustered the buildings of the Arrow ranch, that knowledge in an overwhelming flood assailed her. Then a crimson flush stained her cheeks, her eyes glowed with happiness, and she clasped her hands and stood rigid for a long time. She knew now. A name sprang to her lips, and she murmured it aloud, softly: “Quinton Taylor.” Later she appeared to Martha—a vision that made the negro woman gasp with amazement. “What happen to you, honey? You-all git good news? You look light an’ airy—like you’s goin’ to fly!” “I’ve decided to like this place—after all, Martha. I—I thought at first that I wouldn’t, but I have changed my mind.” Martha looked sharply at her, a sidelong glance that had quite a little subtle knowledge in it. “I reckon that ‘Squint’ Taylor make a good many girls change their mind, honey—he, he, he!” “Martha!”