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 even reduce his loan somewhat. He played no poker during those days of the round-up. He had no money to lose, and no inclination anyhow.

He was still on round-up when Kay's telegram came.

"Mother passed away quietly yesterday. Kay."

He stood—it had been brought out with the mail for the outfit—and stared at it.

It was like a voice from beyond the grave; she had been dead to him for a long time, and now, for a moment, she lived again. She was real. She even remembered him.

That night, lying out in his bed with his face to the stars, he was sorely tempted. After all she was still his wife, and she had said she would come if he sent for her. Suppose he demanded that she come back? That would force them into the open, at least. Then, if they tried to keep her, or she wanted to stay

But of course she wanted to stay. She had planned ahead to leave him, had written home and got money. It was not Clare who had parted them; she was through before that. Weeks maybe before that.

At the end of the round-up he sent his reply, went back home and cleaned up the ranch house as best he could, and then went to Ursula. He looked rather better, although the story of the winter was written on his face for all to see, and his leg was very bad. He had had to split the front of his old boot. But Tulloss had not seen him for months, and he was startled.

"Looking kind of moth-eaten, Tom."

"I'm all right. At least I've pulled through, and that's saying something."

"So it is, Tom. I guess you know your business."

"It's a damned poor business, but it's all I know. Maybe the wheat fellows are right. After a winter like this last one"

"They've got their troubles too."

They worked over their accounts together, Tom with secret pride, the banker satisfied and rather thoughtful. It was not until they had finished that Mr. Tulloss leaned back