Beth rose, and went to the window. “Its clouding over,” she said. “We’ll have snow by morning.” She came back to the fireside, and glancing at his bandaged ankle, smiled. “You’ll have to stay here tonight. In the morning I’ll walk over to Simpson’s—it’s only three miles back around Sugar Loaf—and get you a horse. You can make it to Vailstown then.” A faint, distant sound outside made them look at each other in sudden alarm. They listened. It grew louder—a horse coming along the trail from Rocky Gulch at a gallop. Beth thought of her stepfather, perhaps returning unexpectedly—to find Tom here with her. In the silence she could hear again the lonely howl of the wolf on Sugar Loaf—a sound immeasurably mournful, very much like the desolate, silent mountains themselves. She rose to her feet, trembling. The sound of the horseman approaching grew steadily louder. Then her glance fell upon the little tin clock over the fireplace. She smiled with the relief of sudden comprehension. “Nine o’clock, Tom. I’d forgotten. It’s only the mail rider for Vailstown.” She went to the window. “It’s snowing, Tom,” she added. Tom was sitting up in his chair, tense. She wondered vaguely why he did not seem relieved at her words. “It _is_ the mail,” she cried, after a moment. She opened the door a little and stood looking out. The boy started from his chair, standing upon his injured ankle without thought of it. “He may stop, Beth. He mustn’t see me here. It wouldn’t look right, don’t you see—it—” She wheeled on him sharply. “He isn’t going to stop,” she said. Then she flung the door wide open and stepping outside, waved her hand to the passing rider on the trail below. “Sit down, Tom.” She came back into the room and closed the door. “You mustn’t stand on that ankle.” He sank back into the chair, his face white. “God!” he exclaimed, “I shouldn’t be up here with you alone tonight after—after what—” Beth sat down again beside him. The thoughts that came to her mind frightened her. She tried to dispel them, but couldn’t. She put her hand upon his arm. “I’m glad you’ve struck it, Tom,” she said. “I knew you would. And some time—” “I’m going to have you for my wife,” he finished. “And take you back East, maybe, where you belong.” Suddenly he flung his arms about her again and kissed her upon the lips roughly. “It’s the right thing—the right thing, Beth.” He repeated the words a little bitterly. She disengaged herself gently. “You say ‘the right thing,’ Tom,” she returned quietly, “and you mean to be cynical. Because I’ve said that to you sometimes—and—you never quite understood, did you?” “But why shouldn’t you marry me if we love each other?” he protested again. He had never understood, of course. And hadn’t he the right to understand?