But Columbine held her emotions in abeyance.
The cabin stood high upon a level terrace, with clusters of aspens behind it, and was sheltered from winter blasts by a gray cliff, picturesque and crumbling, with its face overgrown by creeping vines and colorful shrubs, Wilson Moore could not have chosen a more secluded and beautiful valley for his homesteading adventure.

The little gray cabin, with smoke curling from the stone chimney, had lost its look of dilapidation and disuse, yet there was nothing new that Columbine could see.

The last quarter of the ascent of the slope, and the few rods across the level terrace, seemed extraordinarily long to Columbine.

As she dismounted and tied Pronto her heart was beating and her breath was coming fast.
The door of the cabin was open.

Kane trotted past the hesitating Columbine and went in.
"You son-of-a-hound-dog!" came to Columbine's listening ears in Wade's well-known voice.