"Collie, you're late," answered Wilson, with both joy and reproach, as she entered. The cowboy lay upon his bed, and he was alone in the room.
"Oh!... Where is Ben?" exclaimed Columbine.
"He was here. He cooked my dinner. We waited, but you never came. The dinner got cold. I made sure you'd backed out--weren't coming at all--and I couldn't eat.... Wade said he knew you'd come. He went off with the hounds, somewhere ... and oh, Collie, it's all right now!"
Columbine walked to his bedside and looked down upon him with a feeling as if some giant hand was tugging at her heart. He looked better. The swelling and redness of his face were less marked. And at that moment no pain shadowed his eyes. They were soft, dark, eloquent. If Columbine had not come with her avowed resolution and desire to unburden her heart she would have found that look in his eyes a desperately hard one to resist. Had it ever shone there before? Blind she had been.
"You're better," she said, happily.
"Sure--now. But I had a bad night. Didn't sleep till near daylight. Wade found me asleep.... Collie, it's good of you to come. You look so--so wonderful! I never saw your face glow like that. And your eyes--oh!"
"You think I'm pretty, then?" she asked, dreamily, not occupied at all with that thought.
He uttered a contemptuous laugh.
"Come closer," he said, reaching for her with a clumsy bandaged hand.
Down upon her knees Columbine fell. Both hands flew to cover her face. And as she swayed forward she shook violently, and there escaped her lips a little, muffled sound.