Meanwhile, Darrell, on reaching the office, found work and study alike impossible. The room seemed narrow and stifling; the medley of sound from the adjoining offices and from the street was distracting. He recalled the companions of his earlier days of pain and conflict,—the mountains,—and his heart yearned for their restful silence, for the soothing and uplifting of their solemn presence.
Having left a brief note on Mr. Underwood's desk he closed his office, and, leaving the city behind him, started on foot up the familiar canyon road. After a walk of an hour or more he left the road, and, striking into a steep, narrow trail, began the ascent of one of the mountains of the main range. It still lacked a little of midday when he at last found himself on a narrow bench, near the summit, in a small growth of pines and firs. He stopped from sheer exhaustion and looked about him. Not a sign of human life was visible; not a sound broke the stillness save an occasional breath of air murmuring through the pines and the trickling of a tiny rivulet over the rocks just above where he stood. Going to the little stream he caught the crystal drops as they fell, quenching his thirst and bathing his heated brow; then, somewhat refreshed, he braced himself for the inevitable conflict.
Slowly he paced up and down the rocky ledge, giving no heed to the passage of time, all his faculties centred upon the struggle between the inexorable demands of conscience on the one hand and the insatiate cravings of a newly awakened passion on the other. Vainly he strove to find some middle ground. Gradually, as his brain grew calm, the various courses of action which had at first suggested themselves to his mind appeared weak and cowardly, and the only course open to him was that of renunciation and of self-immolation.
With a bitter cry he threw himself, face downward, upon the ground. A long time he lay there, till at last the peace from the great pitying heart of Nature touched his heart, and he slept on the warm bosom of Mother Earth as a child on its mother's breast.
The sun was sinking towards the western ranges and slowly lengthening shadows were creeping athwart the distant valleys when Darrell rose to his feet and,
after silently drinking in the beauty of the scene about him, prepared to descend. His face bore traces of the recent struggle, but it was the face of one who had conquered, whose mastery of himself was beyond all doubt or question. He took the homeward trail with firm step, with head erect, with face set and determined, and there was in his bearing that which indicated that there would be no wavering, no swerving from his purpose. His own hand had closed and bolted the gates of the Eden whose sweets he had but just tasted, and his conscience held the flaming sword which was henceforth to guard those portals.
A little later, as Darrell in the early twilight passed up the driveway to The Pines, he was conscious only of a dull, leaden weight within his breast; his very senses seemed benumbed and he almost believed himself incapable of further suffering, till, as he approached the house, the sight of Kate seated in the veranda with her father and aunt and the thought of the suffering yet in store for her thrilled him anew with most poignant pain.
His face was in the shadow as he came up the steps, and only Kate, seated near him, saw its pallor. She started and would have uttered an exclamation, but something in its expression awed and restrained her. There was a grave tenderness in his eyes as they met hers, but the light and joy which had been there when last she looked into them had gone out and in their place were dark gloom and despair. She heard as in a dream his answers to the inquiries of her father and aunt; heard him pass into the house accompanied by her aunt, who had prepared a substantial lunch against his return, and, with a strange sinking at her heart, sat silently awaiting his coming out.
It had been a trying day for her. On waking, her