her childhood almost unendurable.

"Yes--my son--Jack--he's comin' home," said Belllounds, with a break in
his voice. "An', Collie--now I must tell you somethin'."

"Yes, dad," she had replied, with strong clasp of the heavy hand on her
shoulder.

"Thet's just it, lass. I ain't your dad. I've tried to be a dad to you
an' I've loved you as my own. But you're not flesh an' blood of mine.
An' now I must tell you."

The brief story followed. Seventeen years ago miners working a claim of
Belllounds's in the mountains above Middle Park had found a child asleep
in the columbines along the trail. Near that point Indians, probably
Arapahoes coming across the mountains to attack the Utes, had captured
or killed the occupants of a prairie-schooner. There was no other clue.
The miners took the child to their camp, fed and cared for it, and,
after the manner of their kind, named it Columbine. Then they brought it
to Belllounds.

"Collie," said the old rancher, "it needn't never have been told, an'
wouldn't but fer one reason. I'm gettin' old. I reckon I'd never split
my property between you an' Jack. So I mean you an' him to marry. You
always steadied Jack. With a wife like you'll be--wal, mebbe Jack'll--"

"Dad!" burst out Columbine. "Marry Jack!... Why I--I don't even remember
him!"

"Haw! Haw!" laughed Belllounds. "Wal, you dog-gone soon will. Jack's in