A few miles farther, now, and he would see her.

He would tell her why he had come.

He would claim the love that he knew was his.
And so, with a better heart, he permitted his tired horse to slacken the pace.

He even smiled to think of her surprise when she should see him.
It was a little past nine o'clock when the artist saw, through the trees, the lights in the windows at the Station, and dismounted to open the gate.
Hiding up to the house, he gave the old familiar hail, "Whoo-e-e." The door opened, and with the flood of light that streamed out came the tall form of Brian Oakley.
"Hello! Seems to me I ought to know that voice." The artist laughed nervously.

"It's me, all right, Brian--what there is left of me." "Aaron King, by all that's holy!" cried the Ranger, coming quickly down the steps and toward the shadowy horseman.