up, would edge away from me if she knew that my father had kept saloons
and gambling places and all that." Weston spoke carelessly, puffing at
his cigar, for he had recovered his easy demeanor. "I think a world of
Mary, Mark. She is beautiful, and good, and honest. Sometimes I
suspect that I've stayed here just for her. Sometimes I think I will
not leave till she goes--" Weston sprang to his feet. "It's the dogs!
Hear them!" he cried.

I was up too. Away down the ridge we heard the bay of the hounds again.

"I want to tell you something," I said, pointing to the house by the
clump of oaks. "I wish for your sake that there were two Marys,
Weston. But there is only one, and she is good and beautiful, and for
some reason--Heaven only knows why--she is going to be my wife."

Weston stepped hack and gazed at me. I did not blame him. He seemed
to study me from head to foot, and I knew that he was trying to find
some reason why the girl should care for me. It was natural. I had
puzzled over the same problem and I had not solved it. Now I did not
care.

"Stare on," I cried, laughing. "You can't think it queerer than I do.
It's hard for me to convince myself that it is true."

"I am glad," he said, taking my hand in a warm grasp. "It isn't
strange at all, Mark, for Mary is a wise woman."

"There are the dogs," said I; "they are getting nearer."

"They are coming our way at last," he returned quietly. "But what's