reappear. He waited a long minute, silently, quietly, without
movement, as though turned to stone - withal stone quick with
eagerness and desire. He barked once, and waited. Then he turned
and trotted back to Walt Irvine. He sniffed his hand and dropped
down heavily at his feet, watching the trail where it curved
emptily from view.

The tiny stream slipping down the mossy-lipped stone seemed
suddenly to increase the volume of its gurgling noise. Save for
the meadow-larks, there was no other sound. The great yellow
butterflies drifted silently through the sunshine and lost
themselves in the drowsy shadows. Madge gazed triumphantly at her
husband.

A few minutes later Wolf got upon his feet. Decision and
deliberation marked his movements. He did not glance at the man
and woman. His eyes were fixed up the trail. He had made up his
mind. They knew it. And they knew, so far as they were concerned,
that the ordeal had just begun.

He broke into a trot, and Madge's lips pursed, forming an avenue
for the caressing sound that it was the will of her to send forth.
But the caressing sound was not made. She was impelled to look at
her husband, and she saw the sternness with which he watched her.
The pursed lips relaxed, and she sighed inaudibly.

Wolf's trot broke into a run. Wider and wider were the leaps he
made. Not once did he turn his head, his wolf's brush standing out
straight behind him. He cut sharply across the curve of the trail
and was gone.