There were shadows that betrayed less roundness to her face; there were
lines that told of weariness; but in her eyes there was a glowing light
of hope. She raised her face to the stars and unconsciously paraphrasing
Pierre's song said: "Oh, the God that dost save us, hear!"

A hand touched her arm, and a voice said, huskily, "Jen, I wanted to save
him and--and not let you know of it; that's all. You're not keepin' a
grudge agin me, my girl?"

She did not move nor turn her head. "I've no grudge, father; but--if--
if you had told me, 'twouldn't be on my mind that I had made it worse for
Val."

The kindness in the voice reassured him, and he ventured to say: "I
didn't think you'd be carin' for one of the Riders of the Plains, Jen."

Then the old man trembled lest she should resent his words. She seemed
about to do so, but the flush faded from her brow, and she said, simply:
"I care for Val most, father. But he didn't know he was getting Val into
trouble."

She suddenly quivered as a wave of emotion passed through her; and she
said, with a sob in her voice: "Oh, it's all scrub country, father, and
no paths, and--and I wish I had a mother!"

The old man sat down in the doorway and bowed his grey head in his arms.
Then, after a moment, he whispered:

"She's been dead twenty-two years, Jen. The day Val was born she went