"No, Russ," she presently said, once more calm.

"But Sally--if you love me--" I burst out, and then stopped, stilled by
something in her face.

"I can't help--loving you, Russ," she said. "But to promise to marry
you, that's different. Why, Russ, I know nothing about you, not even
your last name. You're not a--a steady fellow. You drink, gamble, fight.
You'll kill somebody yet. Then I'll _not_ love you. Besides, I've always
felt you're not just what you seemed. I can't trust you. There's
something wrong about you."

I knew my face darkened, and perhaps hope and happiness died in it.
Swiftly she placed a kind hand on my shoulder.

"Now, I've hurt you. Oh, I'm sorry. Your asking me makes such a
difference. _They_ are not in earnest. But, Russ, I had to tell you
why I couldn't be engaged to you."

"I'm not good enough for you. I'd no right to ask you to marry me," I
replied abjectly.

"Russ, don't think me proud," she faltered. "I wouldn't care who you
were if I could only--only respect you. Some things about you are
splendid, you're such a man, that's why I cared. But you gamble. You
drink--and I _hate_ that. You're dangerous they say, and I'd be, I _am_
in constant dread you'll kill somebody. Remember, Russ, I'm no Texan."

This regret of Sally's, this faltering distress at giving me pain, was