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 envelops old wounds, fold on fold, in its inexorable dignity.

They must have been on the road an hour; the moon had pared away the last shred of cloud, leaving its course untroubled and clear down to the very horizon's edge, when the wagon overtook them. It came with little noise along the dusty road, the glow of a cigar in the back seat showing where the cattleman rode.

John Moore did not appear to think it remarkable, or even unusual, to come across his daughter walking the public road with a stranger at night. There was no uneasiness in his manner, no displeasure. Dunham had looked forward to this meeting with apprehension, doubtful whether Moore would countenance his daughter's activity in the affairs of a stranger whose follies made him contemptible even to himself.

Moore greeted his daughter with boisterous, loudvoiced affection, leaning over the side to give her a popping kiss. He shook hands with Dunham when Zora introduced him, no reservation of inequality or suspicion in his way. There was a strong vapor of whisky on his breath, and he was a voluble, loudspoken, rough-edged unlettered man.

Dunham mounted the front seat beside the driver; the journey was resumed, Moore talking with loud impartiality for the benefit of all about his journey, which had extended as far east as Chicago, and the successful outcome of his business, whatever that had been. He said nothing of Dunham's rescue from self-appointed extinction at Ford Kellogg's hands.

The driver, apparently a man of length from his