moment. "We have had an unforgettable day out of life," she continued
rapidly; "that is something. It has been different, strangely apart,
from all the rest. The rain and that musty little store house and the
wonderful iron; a memory to hold, carry away--"

"To carry where?" he interrupted. "You must realize that I'll never let
you go now. I will keep you if we have to go beyond the Endless
Mountains. I will keep you in the face of any man or opposition
created."

A wistfulness settled upon her out of which grew a slight hope. "I am
afraid of myself, Howat," she told him; "all that I have been, my
life--against me. But, perhaps, here, with you, it might be different.
Perhaps I would be constant. Perhaps all the while I have needed this.
Howat, do you think so? Do you think I could forget so much, drop the
past from me, be all new and happy?"

He reassured her, only half intent upon the burden of her words. He
utterly disregarded anything provisional in their position; happiness or
unhappiness were unconsidered in the overwhelming determination that she
should never leave him. No remote question of that entered his brain.
The difficulties were many, but he dismissed them with an impatient
gesture of his unoccupied hand. Gilbert Penny would be heavily
censorious; he had, Howat recognized, the moral prejudices of a solid,
unimaginative blood. But, lately, his father had sunk to a place
comparatively insignificant in his thoughts. This was partly due to the
complete manner in which Isabel Penny had silenced the elder at
breakfast. His mother, Howat gladly felt, would give him the sympathy of
a wise, broad understanding. David and Caroline would interpose no
serious objection. Felix Winscombe remained; a virile figure in spite of