Heart's Desire

by Emerson Hough

  CHAPTER XXV

  ROMANCE AT HEART'S DESIRE

  _The Pleasing Recountal of an Absent Knight, a Gentle Lady, and anAnanias with Spurs_

  Long and weary miles lay before Curly, messenger to the queen, but thebigness of his errand lightened the way, and his own courage andhopefulness communicated themselves to his steed. The mad horse,Pinto, indomitable, unapproachable, loped along with head down and earsback, surly at touch of rein or spur, yet steady in his gait as anantelope. The two swept down the long canon from Heart's Desire,traversed for twenty-five miles the alkali plain below, and climbedthen the Nogales and the Bonitos, over paths known only to cattlethieves and those who pursued them. At last they swung down into thebeautiful valley of the Bonito, and thence in the night far to thesouthward, until at length they reached the defiles of the Sacramentos.They pulled up after more than a day and a night of travel, weary butnot hopelessly the worse for wear, at the end of the steep trail up themountains to the Sky Top hotel.

  Curly, a trifle gaunt, gave his first attention to his horse, which heunsaddled with a slap of approval, and turned loose to feed as best itmight on the coarse herbage of the upper heights. His next thought wasfor himself, and he realized that he was hungry. Immediately theredawned upon his mind another great conviction. He was scared!

  He looked about at the long galleries of the ornate modern log house,wherein civilization sought to ape the wilderness; but it was not thearrogant pretentiousness of the building itself which caused him toshift his glance and stand dubiously upon one foot. It was the thoughtof what the edifice might contain. There, as he began too late toreflect, was the queen! He, the trusted henchman, was bearing to her amissive regarding whose nature he now experienced sudden misgivings.Suppose Willie, the sheepherder, had not, after all, been able to meetthe requirements of a situation so delicate and so important! Curlyhad known the plains and the mountains all his life. He had ridden inthe press of the buffalo herd in the Panhandle, had headed cattlestampedes in the breaks of the Pecos, had met the long-toed cinnamonbear all over these mountains that lay about him--had even heard thewhisper of hostile lead as part of his own day's work,--but neverbefore had his heart failed him.

  Nevertheless, his face puckered into a frown of determination, hestumbled, a trifle pigeon-toed in his high-heeled boots, across thefloor of one gallery after another, and knocked at one door afteranother, until finally, by aid of lingering Mexican servants, he foundhimself in the presence of the beautiful queen whom he had sought.

  He ratified her title when she came toward him where he stood, twirlinghis hat in his hands; so tall was she, so grave and dignified, yet sovery sweet and simple. Curly was a man, and he felt the spell ofsmooth brown hair and wide brows, and straight, sincere eyes; not tospeak of a queen's figure clad in such raiment as had not often beengiven Curly to look upon. He gazed in a frank admiration whichlessened his fear.

  Constance Ellsworth held out her hand, with questions for his ownhousehold at Heart's Desire. Was everything right with them? WasArabella quite well of her accident? Was his wife well? And so on.But all the time she questioned him deeper with eyes large, wistful,eager. She had had no news since leaving Heart's Desire, and now shedreaded any. This, then, she said with tightening heart, was news, butfatal news, long withheld. Had Dan Anderson come back unhurt from hissheriff's errand, there would have been no message at all, and silencewould have been sweeter than this certainty of evil. This messenger,reticent, awkward, embarrassed, brought her news of Dan Anderson--ofthe boy whom she had loved, of the man she loved, debonair, mocking,apparently careless, but, as she herself knew, in his heart indomitablyresolved. Now he was gone forever from her life. He was dead! Shecould never see him again. Ah! why had they not used the days of thislife, so brief, so soon ended? It was of his death that the messengermust speak.

  Curly, already sufficiently perturbed, witnessed all this written onher face, stumbled, stammered, but was unable to find coherent speech;although he saw plainly enough the subterfuge with which even now thegirl sought to hedge herself against prying eyes that would have readher secret. She began again, to ask him of his family, the samequestions. "Is anything wrong?" she demanded. In some way they wereseated before he could go on.

  "It ain't the twins, ma'am," he began. "I got--I got a letter for you.It's from him--from us--that is, I got a letter from Mr. Anderson--DanAnderson, you know."

  He fumbled in his pocket. The girl, thoroughbred, looked him straightin the face, pale, meeting what she felt to be the great moment of herlife.

  "Then he's alive! He must be!"

  Curly shook his head; meaning that he was feeling in the wrong pocket.

  "He is dead! And I did not see him. He--went away--" Her chinquivered. "Tell me," she whispered, "tell me!"

  Curly, busy in his search for the letter, lost the tragedy of this.

  "Tell me, _tell_ me, how did it happen?"

  "Well, ma'am, he ain't hurt so awful," remarked Curly, calmly. "Hejust got a finger or so touched up a little, so's he couldn't writenone to speak of, you see."

  Her heart gave a great bound. She feared to hope, lest the truth mightbe too cruel; but at length she dared the issue. "Curly," said she,firmly, "you are not telling me the truth."

  "I know it, ma'am," replied Curly, amiably; he suddenly realized thathe was not making his own case quite strong enough. "The fact is, hegot hurt a _leetle_ bit worse'n that. His hand, his _left_--no, Imean his _right_ hand got busted up plenty. Why, he couldn't cut hisown victuals. The fact is, it's maybe even a little worse'n that."

  "Tell me the truth!" the girl demanded steadily. "Is his arm gone?"

  "Sure it is," replied Curly, cheerfully, glad of assistance. "Do youreckon Dan Anderson would be gettin' _anybody_ to write to _you_ forhim if he had even a piece of a arm left in the shop? I reckon not!He ain't that sort of a _man_."

  Curly's sudden improvement gave him courage. "The fact is, ma'am,"said he, "I got to break this thing to you kind of gentle. You knowhow that is yourself."

  "I know all about it now," she said calmly. "I knew he would not comeback--I saw it in his face. It was all because of that miserablerailroad trouble that he went away--that he didn't ever come. It wasall my own fault--my fault,--but I didn't mean it--I didn't--"

  Curly, for the first time in his life, found himself engaged in animportant emotional situation. He rose and gazed down at her withsolemn pity written upon his countenance.

  "Ma'am," he said, "I don't like to see you take on. I wish't youwouldn't. Why, I've seen men shot like Dan Anderson is, bullets cleanthrough the middle of their body, and them out and frisky in less'n sixweeks."

  "He _will_ live?"

  "Oh, _well_," and Curly rubbed his chin in deliberation, "I can't sayabout _that_. He _might_ live. You see, there ain't no doctor atHeart's Desire. The boys just took care of him the best they could.They brung him home from quite a ways off. They--they cut his arm offeasy as they could, them not bein' reg'lar doctors. They--they sewedhim up fine. He was shot some in the fight with the Kid's gang, out tothe Pinos Altos ranch. The sherf tole me hisself Dan was as game a manas ever throwed a leg over a saddle. When he got back from takin' theKid up to Vegas, the sherf--that's Ben Stillson--he starts down toCruces. Convention there this week, ma'am. Ben, he allowed he'd getDan Anderson nomernated for Congress--that is, if he hadn't 'a' gotkilled."

  "I knew he was a brave man," said the girl, quietly. "I've known thata long time."

  "You didn't know any more'n us fellers knowed all along," said Curly."There never was a squarer, nor a whiter, nor a gamer man stood onleather than him. He come out here to stay, and he's the sort that weall wouldn't let go of. Some of 'em goes back home. He didn't. Whatthere was here he could have. For one while we thought he was throwin'us down in this railroad deal, but now we know he wasn't. We doneelected him mayor, and right soon we're goin' to elect him somethingbetter'n that--if they ain't started it al
ready over to Cruces--thatis, I mean, if he ever gets well, which ain't likely--him bein' dead.Now I hate to talk this-a-way to you, ma'am; I ought to give you thisletter. But I leave it to you if I ain't broke it as gentle as anyfeller could."

  Curly saw the bowed head, and soared to still greater heights."Ma'am," said he, "I don't see why you take on the way you do. We allknow that you don't care a damn for Dan Anderson, or for Heart'sDesire. Dan Anderson knowed that hisself, and has knowed it all along._You_ got no right to cry. You got no right to let on what you don'treally feel. I won't stand for that a minute, ma'am. Now I'm--I'mplumb sincere and _truthful_. No frills goes." There was thesolemnity of conscious virtue in his voice as he went on.

  "I'm this much of a mind-reader, ma'am," said he, "that I know youdon't care a snap of your finger for Dan Anderson. That's everdent. Iain't in on that side of the play. I'm just here to say that, so faras he's concerned _hisself_, he'd 'a' laid down and died cheerful anyminute of his life for _you_."

  She flung upward a tearful face to look at him once more.

  "He just worships the place where your shadow used to fall at, that'sall," said Curly, firmly. "He don't talk of nothing else but you,ma'am."

  "How dare he talk of me!" she flashed.

  "Oh, that is--well, that is, he don't talk so blamed much, after_all_," stammered Curly. "Leastwise, not none now. He's out of hishead most of the time, now."

  "Then you've not told me everything, even yet," exclaimed she,piteously.

  "Not quite," said Curly, with a long breath; "but I'm a-comin' along."

  "He's dying!" she cried with conviction. Curly, now taking animpersonal interest in the dramatic aspect of the affair, solemnlyturned away his head.

  "Ma'am," said he, at length, "he thought a heap of you when he wasalive. We--we all did, but _he_ did special and private like. Why,ma'am, if you'd come and stand by his grave, he'd wake up _now_ andwelcome you! You see, I am a married man my own self, and Tom Osby,he's been married copious; and Tom and me, we both allowed just like Isaid. We knew the diseased would have done that cheerful--if he hadany sort of chanct."

  The girl sprang up. "He's not dead!" she cried, and her eyes blazed,her natural courage refusing to yield. "I'll not believe it!"

  "I didn't ast you to, ma'am," said Curly. "He ain't plumb dead; he'sjust threatened. Oh, say, you've kind of got me rattled, you see.I've got a missage--I mean a missive--anyways a letter, from him. Ihad it in my pants pocket all the time, and thought it was in my coat.Them was the last words he wrote."

  She tore the letter from his hand, and her eyes caught every word of itat the first glance.

  "This is not his letter!" she exclaimed. "He never wrote it! It's notin his hand!"

  "Ma'am," said Curly, virtuously grieved, "how could you! I didn't_say_ he wrote it. He had to have a amanyensis, of course,--hima-layin' there all shot up. Nobody _said_ it was his handwriting It_ain't_ his handwritin'. It's his _heart_writin'. They sign it withtheir _hearts_, ma'am! Now I tell you that for the truth, and you cangamble on _that_, anyways.

  "I think I had better go away. I'm hungry, anyhow," he added, turningaway.

  "Soon!" she said, stretching out her hand. "Wait!" her other handtrembled as she devoured the pages of the message to the queen. Hercheeks flushed.

  "Oh, _read_ it, ma'am!" said Curly, querulously. "Read it and getsorry. If you can read that there letter from Dan Anderson--signedwith his heart--and not hit the trail for his bedside, then I've had aalmighty long ride for nothing."

  CHAPTER XXVI

  THE GIRL AT HEART'S DESIRE

  _The Story of a Surprise, a Success, and Something Else Very MuchBetter_

  As Curly stumped away, his spurs clinking on the gallery floor, heencountered Mr. Ellsworth, who held out his hand in recognition.

  "I just heard some one was down from the town," he began. "How are you,and what's the news?"

  "Mighty bad," said Curly, "mighty bad." Then to himself: "O Lord! I'min for it again, and worse. I'd a heap rather lie to a woman than aman--it seems more natural."

  "Bring any word down with you from up there?" asked Ellsworth. Curlynodded. "I brung a letter," said he.

  "That so? What's it about?"

  "Well, sir, it bein' a letter to a lady--"

  "You mean my daughter? Now, what--"

  "Yes, it's for her," admitted Curly; "but it's personal."

  "Well, I didn't know but it might be news from that young man, Anderson.You know he went with the posse. Do you happen to know?"

  "You ask her. It is, though."

  "Did he send you down here?"

  "I'm almighty hungry; I ain't had no breakfast, nor nothing." WhereuponCurly bolted.

  Ellsworth, disturbed, went in search of Constance. He found her, acrumpled and pathetic figure. The news then had, indeed, been bad!

  "Now, now, child," he began, "what's up here? You've a letter, the mantells me."

  She covered it with her hand as it lay in her lap. "Is it from him,young Anderson?" he asked. She nodded.

  "It's written by a friend of his," she answered presently. "He himselfcouldn't write. He was too--ill."

  "Sent for you?" His voice was grave.

  "Yes," she whispered, "when it was too late."

  "We'll go," he said with decision. "Get ready. Maybe there is somemistake."

  "Don't," she begged, "there is no mistake. I knew it would happen; Ifelt it."

  "By Jove, I hope it's not true; I was beginning to think a good deal ofthat boy myself."

  Constance was passing through the door on her way to her room. Sheturned and blazed at him. "Then why didn't you talk that way before?"

  She disappeared, and left him staring after her, through the open door.

  An hour later a buckboard, driven by a silent Mexican, rolled down theSky Top canon, bound for the northern trail.

  Curly finished his breakfast, and then went out in search of his horse,which presently he found standing dejectedly, close where it had beenleft, apparently anchored by the reins thrown down over its head anddragging on the ground. Curly seated himself on the ground near by andaddressed his misanthropic steed in tones of easy familiarity.

  "Pinto," said he, "you remind me of a heap of folks I know. You thinkthem reins holds you, but they don't. They ain't tied to nothing.You're just like them, hitched tight to a fool notion, that's all. If Idon't take your bridle off, you'll stand there and starve to death, likea good many fool folks I've heard of. You've got to eat, Pinto."

  Curly arose and with a meditative finger traced the outlines of thecontinental maps displayed on Pinto's parti-colored flanks. Thatcynical beast, with small warning, kicked at him viciously.

  "Oh, there you go!" remonstrated Curly; "can't you get tired enough tobe decent? Git on away--_vamos_!"

  He stripped off the bridle from Pinto's head, and again gave him afriendly slap, as he drove him off to graze, without any precaution toprevent his running away. As for himself, Curly lay down upon theground, his face on his arm, and was soon fast asleep in the glaringsun. Pinto, misanthropic as he was, did not abuse the confidencereposed in him. He walked off to a trickle of water which came downfrom a mountain spring, and grazed steadily upon the coarse mountaingrass, but every now and then, under the strange bond which sometimesexists between horse and man, wandered around to look inquiringly at hissleeping master, whom he would gladly have brained upon occasion, butupon whom, none the less, he relied blindly.

  There were long shadows slanting toward the eastward when Curly aroseand again saddled up his misfit mount. He knew that the buckboard waswell in advance of him in time, but it must take the longer wagon trailto the westward of Sky Top, while for himself there were shorter pathsacross the mountains. He rode on until night fell, and the moon arose,flooding all the mountain range with wondrous silvery light, which grewthe plainer as he left the whispering pines and came into the dwindledpinons of the lower levels. Then up and down,
over and over, he crossedthe edges of other spurs, coming down from the great backbone of therange. It was past midnight when he reached the flat-topped mesa nearthe Nogales divide, where there were no trees at all, and where ancientpottery, relics of a forgotten Heart's Desire of another race and time,crumbled beneath his horse's hoofs. Here Curly loosened the saddlecinches, flung down the bridle-rein over Pinto's head again, and himselflay down to sleep, uncovered, but hardy as any mountain bear that roamedthe hills.

  When he awoke the red sun hung poised on the shoulder of Blanco, faraway, as though to receive the ghostly worship of those who once livedand loved, and prayed here, in the long ago. So now he ate as he might,and drank at the Rio Bonito, a dozen miles farther on, and went his waycomforted.

  Dropping down rapidly on the farther side of the Nogales, Pintoshambling along discontentedly but steadily, Curly at length came to thewagon trail which led along the edge of the plain on the western side ofthese ranges which he had threaded. He leaned forward and examined thetrail for wheel marks.

  "By Jinks! Pinto," he muttered, "the old man and the girl is shorehittin' the trail hard for that there death-bed. I'll bet that poregirl's tired, for they must have made a short camp last night. _Vamos,caballo_!" and so he spurred on to the northward along the hot lowflats.

  By noon he sighted a dust cloud on ahead, which told him that he had theother party well in hand if he liked, in spite of the speed they weremaking.

  "They travelled all night, that's what they did! If that Mexican don'tkill his team, it's a lucky thing." He did not seek to close the gapbetween them, but on the other hand pulled up and rode more slowly.

  "Now, Pinto," he pondered, "whatever in the world am I goin' to do whenwe all pull into town? Deathbed--and him like enough settin' up andplayin' solitaire, or out pitchin' horse shoes. Shucks! If I could gitaround behind Dan Anderson's house, I believe I'd shoot him a few forluck, so's to make some sort of death-bed scene like is announced in thesmall bills. We've been playin' it low down on them two folks, and forone, I wish't I was out of it. Pinto, this here particular trustedhenchman has shore got cold feet right here."

  He trailed behind the buckboard hour after hour, dropping back into agully for concealment now and then, and putting off the unpleasant hourof meeting as long as possible. He kept in the rear until the vehicleturned in at the mouth of the canon which led up to the valley ofHeart's Desire. Then Curly hastened, and so finally clattered upalongside the buckboard. Ellsworth was gray with fatigue, and Constanceworn and pale; seeing which Curly cursed himself, Tom Osby, and allanimate and inanimate things. "It's a shame, that's what it is!" hemuttered to himself reproachfully, and averted his face when Constancesmiled at him bravely and disclaimed fatigue.

  The sun was beginning to sink beyond Baxter peak as they came in view ofthe little straggling town, clinging hard to the earth as it had throughso many years of oblivion. It was an enchanted valley upon which theygazed. The majestic robes of the purple shadows, tremendous,wide-spreading, yet soft as the texture of thrice-piled velvet, werefalling upon the shoulders of the hills. An unspeakable, stately calmcame with the hour of evening. It was a world apart, beautiful, unreal,sweet and full of peace. Far, far from here were all the tinselledtrappings of an artificial world, distant the clamorings of a disturbingcivilization with its tears and terrors. Battle and striving, anxietyand doubt, apprehension and repinings--the envy and the jealousies andlittle fears of life--none of these lay in the lap of old and calmCarrizo. Peace, rest, and pause,--these things were here.

  The ravens of the Lord had cared for those who had come hither, pausing,dreaming, for a pulse-beat in a frenzied century of rapacity and greed.Would the ravens care for a now pale-faced, trembling girl?

  "It's perty, ain't it, ma'am?" said Curly. She looked at him andunderstood many things.

  But Curly left them traitorously, almost as soon as they entered thelower end of the street, intent upon plans of his own. Those in theslower buckboard, whose tired team could ill afford any gait beyond awalk, saw him set spurs to his horse and dash ahead. There came moreand more plainly to their ears the sound of a vast confused shouting,mingled with rapid punctuation of revolver fire. As they came into fullview of the middle portion of the street, they saw it occupied by theentire population of Heart's Desire, all apparently gone mad with someincomprehensible emotion.

  "What's the matter? What's the matter?" Mr. Ellsworth called out toone man after another as they passed; but none of them answered him.Coherent speech seemed to have deserted all. "Here, you, Curly!" heshouted. "What's all this about?"

  Curly, after a swift dash up the street, was now spurring back madly,his hat swinging in the air, himself crazed as the others.

  "He's in!" he yelled. "We done it!"

  "Who's in? What've you done?"

  "Dan Anderson--nomernated him for Congress--day 'fore yestidday, over toCruces. Whole convention went solid--Cruces and Dona Ana, Blanco--wholekit and b'ilin' of 'em. Ben Stillson done it--boys just heard--heardthe news!" After which Curly relapsed into a series of yells whichclosed the incident.

  Constance listened, open-eyed and silent. So then, he had succeeded!The joy in his success, the pride in his victory, brought a flush to hercheek; but in the same moment the light faded from her eye. She caughther father by the shoulder almost fiercely. "Look at them!" sheexclaimed. "They're proud of their victory, but they do not think of_him_. See! He is not here."

  Her father, sniffing politics, was forgetting all else; but sobered atthis speech, he now motioned the driver to move on. McKinney was there,Doc Tomlinson, Uncle Jim Brothers--the man from Leavenworth--many whomthey knew, but not Dan Anderson.

  As they turned from the street to cross the _arroyo_, they sawfollowing at a respectful distance both Curly and Tom Osby, the latterwalking at Curly's saddle-skirt, for reasons not visible at a distance.Tom Osby was still continuing his protestations. "You go on over,Curly," said he. "You've done mighty well; now go on and finish up. Iain't in on the messenger part."

  "Maybe not," replied Curly, "but both halfs of this here amanyensis isgoin' over there together. I told that girl that Dan Anderson was shotto a finish and just about to cash in. Now here's all this hoorah abouthis bein' put up for Congress! I dunno _what_ she'll find when shegets into that house, but whichever way it goes, she's due to think I'ma damned liar. You come along, or I'll take _you_ over on a rope."

  The two conspirators crossed the _arroyo_ and paused at the path whichled up to Dan Anderson's little cabin. They saw Mr. Ellsworth andConstance leave the buckboard and stop uncertainly at the door. Theysaw him knock and step half within, then withdraw and gently push hisdaughter ahead of him. Then he stood outside, his hat in hand,violently mopping his brow. As he caught sight of the two laggards hebeckoned them peremptorily.

  "O Lord!" moaned Tom Osby; "now here's what that sheepherder done to us,with his missive and his signet ring."

  Constance Ellsworth had grown deadly pale as she approached thedwelling. The open door let in upon a darkened interior. There was nolight, no ray of hope to comfort her. There, as it seemed to her, inthat tomblike abode, lay the end of all her happiness. In her heart wasonly the prayer that she might find him able, still to recognize her.

  At her father's gesture she stepped to the door--and stopped. The bloodwent first to her heart, and then flamed back into her face. Her cheekstingled. Her hand fell lax from the door jamb, and she half staggeredagainst it for support, limp and helpless.

  There before her, and busily engaged in writing--so busy that he hadmerely called out a careless invitation to enter when he heard the knockof what he presumed to be a chance caller--there, perhaps a trifle pale,but certainly well, and very much himself, sat Dan Anderson!

  "He's alive!" whispered Constance to her heart.

  "He's going to live!"

  The future delegate from the Territory had slunk away from the noisystreet to pen some line of acknowledgment
to his friend the sheriff ofBlanco. He had succeeded, so he reasoned with himself insistently; andyet a strange apathy, a sadness rather than exultation, enveloped him.The world lay dull and gray around him. The price of his success hadbeen the sight of a face worth more to him than all else in the world.He had won something, but had lost everything. His hand stopped, hispencil fell upon the paper. He looked up--to see _her_ standing at hisdoor!

  Dumb, unbelieving, he gazed and gazed. She turned from red to pale,before his eyes, and still he could not speak. He knew that in aninstant the vision would fade away.

  "Oh, why, hello!" said he at last, weakly.

  "How--that is, how do you do?" Constance said, flushing adorably again.

  "I didn't expect--I didn't know you were coming," stammered Dan Anderson.

  She chilled at this, but went on wonderingly. "I got your letter--" shebegan.

  "Letter? My letter--_what_ letter?"

  Constance looked at him fairly now, agitation sufficiently gone toenable her to notice details. She saw that Dan Anderson's left arm wassupported upon the table, but apparently not seriously injured. And hehad been writing--with his _right_ hand--at this very moment! Shealmost sank to the ground. There had been some cruel misunderstanding!Was she always to be repudiated, shamed? She stood faltering, and wouldhave turned away.

  But by this time Dan Anderson's own numbed faculties came back to himwith a rush. With a bound he was at her side, his right arm about her,holding her close, strong.

  "Constance!" he cried. "Constance! You! You!" He babbled manythings, his cheek pressed against hers. She could not speak.

  "You see--you see--" exclaimed Dan Anderson, at length, half freeing herto look the more directly into her eyes, and to assure himself once morethat it all was true--"I didn't understand at first. Of _course_, Isent the letter. I wrote it. I couldn't wait--I couldn't endure it anylonger. Darling, I couldn't _live_ without you--and so I wrote, Iwrote! And you've come!"

  "But your handwriting--" she murmured.

  "Of course! of course!" said Dan Anderson. He was lying beautifullynow. "But of course you know I'm left-handed, and my left arm got hurta while ago, so I couldn't use that hand. I don't suppose myhandwriting did look quite natural to you."

  Her eyes were solemn but contented as she looked into his face, and sawthat in spite of his words he was as much mystified as herself. Slowlyshe presented to him the letter which he had never seen. His face grewgrave and tender as he read it line for line.

  "It is mine!" he said. "I wrote it. I sent it. I've sent it athousand times to you before now, across the mountains."

  "Is it signed with your heart, Dan?" she whispered.

  "With my heart--yes, yes!"

  "It is beautiful," said she, simply. And so they dropped between themthe letter to the queen. Hand in hand they stepped to the door, theroom too small now to contain their happiness.

  Two stumbling figures fleeing, pigeon-toed and sharp-heeled, on thefurther side of the _arroyo_ meant much to Dan Anderson. A laughchoked in his throat as he caught her once more in his arms.

  "It looks like Willie had made good!" said Tom Osby to Curly, as he tooka swift glance back over his shoulder.

  But Constance and her lover had forgotten all the world, as they steppedout now into the glory of the twilight of Heart's Desire.

  "You remember," said he--"up there--the other time?" He nodded towardthe head of the _arroyo_, where lay the garden of the Littlest Girl.

  "You broke my heart," she murmured. "I loved you, Dan. What could Ido?"

  "Don't!" he begged as he tightened his arm about her. "I loved _you_,Constance--what could _I_ do? We've been through the fire together.It has all come right. It's all so beautiful."

  They stood together at the little garden spot. Two brave red roses nowblossomed there, and he plucked them both, pinning them at her throatwith hands that trembled. They turned and looked out over the littlevalley, and to them it seemed a golden cup overrunning with joy.

  "Heart's Desire," he murmured, and once more his cheek rested againsthers.

  "Yes," she whispered vaguely, "all, all--your Heart's Desire, Ihope--and mine--_mine_."

  "It's the world," he murmured. "It is the Beginning. We are the veryfirst. Oh, Eve! Eve!"