faults were. He knew that he had many and could
only blame himself for them. But which of them
did she find chiefly objectionable? He was pitiable
in his pleading.

But Helen shook her head. "I -- I can't tell
you, Stephen," she declared, her voice breaking.
"It -- it is too much to ask of -- of any girl."

He rose, turning toward the distant mountains,
bright and smiling in their noonday splendor.
As his eyes dwelt upon them in brooding silence,
Helen gained her feet. And, aware of her great
part in this wretchedness, she took his hand
very gently in her own. Subtly conscious of the
touch, realizing the tumult in his soul, she found
herself suddenly alive to a feeling within her
deeper than mere pity and sympathy. It was the
anguish preceding tears. Quickly withdrawing
her hand, she turned and fled to the house. Inside,
she slowly approached a window. He was
leading Pat into the corral; and, watching him unsaddle
and unbridle her horse, her treasure, she
awoke to something else within her, a strange
swelling of her heart, different from anything
she had ever known. It was like ownership; it
was a something as of maternal pride, a something
new to her which she could not fathom.
She turned away. When she looked out again,
her eyes dry and burning, he was riding slowly
along the trail toward town.

It was the beginning of the end. Winter passed,
with horses abandoned for the delights, swift-following,
of dinner and dance and house party.

[[131]]

p130 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p131w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p132

v?