"I know what you mean," he answered. "You mean, don't the wild horses
wish that they could live in a fine stable, and have a lot of men to
feed and take care of them, and rig them out with fancy, gold-mounted
harness, and let them prance down the streets for the crowds to see? No;
horses have more sense than that. It takes a human to make that kind of
a fool of himself. There's only one thing in the world that would make
me want to try it, and I guess you know what that is."

His last words robbed his answer of its sting, and she said gently, "You
are bitter to-night, Phil. It is not like you."

He did not answer.

"Did something go wrong to-day?" she persisted.

He turned suddenly to face her, and spoke with a passion unusual to him.
"I saw you at the ranch this afternoon--as you were riding away. You did
not even look toward the corral where you knew I was at work; and it
seemed like all the heart went clear out of me. Oh, Kitty, girl, can't
we bring back the old days as they were before you went away?"

"Hush, Phil," she said, almost as she would have spoken to one of her
boy brothers.

But he went on recklessly. "No, I'm going to speak to-night. Ever since
you came home you have refused to listen to me--you have put me
off--made me keep still. I want you to tell me, Kitty, if I were like
Honorable Patches, would it make any difference?"