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They passed some cottages with pretty gardens in front; they stopped for a second to look at the old-fashioned columbine and monkshood, the none-so-pretty, the yellow and crimson wall-flower, the peony roses.

"It'll save them if they can be got to right off," replied Mrs. Andrews. "Speaking of doctors," went on Columbine, striving to make her query casual, "do you know whether or not Wilson Moore had his foot treated by a doctor at Kremmling?" "He did not," answered Mrs. Andrews. "Wasn't no doctor there. They'd had to send to Denver, an', as Wils couldn't take that trip or wait so long, why, Mrs.

"Oh no I never did I never did!" wailed Columbine. "Then you'll think before it's too late?" he implored, wildly. "Dearest Collie, think! You won't ruin yourself! You won't? Say you won't!" "But Oh, Wilson, what can I say? I've got to marry him." "Collie, I'll kill him before he gets you." "You mustn't talk so. If you fought again if anything terrible happened, it'd kill me."

He did love her, love her adoringly, as he loved what was great and lofty in art. At her wedding he was the merriest among the guests, but in the stillness of night he wept: if the public had seen his distorted face then, they would have applauded rapturously. "And a few days ago, Columbine died.

Best trapeze worker in the business, if I do say it myself. And 'er mother was the best columbine that ever appeared in a Drury Lane pantomime, poor lass." He abruptly passed his hand across his eyes. "The columbine?" said David, his eyes beaming. "I remember the columbine and the harlequin and the pantaloon in Drury Lane one boxing week when I was in London with my grandfather.

Columbine stood where he had left her: dubious, yet with the blood still hot in her cheeks. "Jealous?... He wins the girl?" she murmured in repetition to herself. "What ever could he have meant? He didn't mean he didn't " The simple, logical interpretation of Wilson's words opened Columbine's mind to a disturbing possibility of which she had never dreamed. That he might love her!

Moaning and wringing her hands, Columbine staggered with the burden of the struggle in her. "I'm quite quite mad or dreaming. Oh, Ben!" she cried. "Brace up, Collie. It's sure hard. Wils, your friend and playmate so many years it's hard to believe! We all understand, Collie. Now you go in, an' don't listen to any more or look any more."

"I'll go and eat at the ordinary below stairs." Thereupon up jumped Columbine. "And I'll come with you, Scaramouche!" cried she. It acted like a signal. Had the thing been concerted it couldn't have fallen out more uniformly. Binet, in fact, was persuaded of a conspiracy.

"I surely did," she replied, advancing. "How are you?" "Oh, I'm all right. Tickled to death, right now. Only, I hate to have you see this battered mug of mine." "You needn't care," said Columbine, unsteadily. And indeed, in that first glance she did not see him clearly. A mist blurred her sight and there was a lump in her throat. Then, to recover herself, she looked around the cabin.

Then Moore was silent, holding her with his free hand, breathing hard, and slowly quieting down. Columbine felt then that he knew that there was something terribly wrong, and that perhaps he dared not voice his fear. At any rate, he silently held her, waiting. That silent wait grew unendurable for Columbine. She wanted to prolong this moment that was to be all she could ever surrender.