an excuse to live here like I have. I am the loneliest man that was
ever born--lonely is no name for it. In the dead hours of the night I
suffer agonies--you see, I am not a good sleeper. I have been as near
insanity as any man that ever lived out of an asylum. But I have been
mighty nearly free from all that since you began to nurse me. I wish
to God it could go on forever--forever, do you understand?--but it
can't--it can't. I have my troubles and you have yours--that is," he
added, quickly, as she shot a sudden glance of inquiry at him, "I
reckon you have troubles, most girls do."

"Yes, I have my troubles, Mr. Westerfelt," she said, simply.
"Sometimes I think I cannot bear mine, but I do."

He said nothing, but his eyes were upon her almost with a look of fear.
Was she about to tell him frankly of her love for Wambush?

She rolled up one of the blankets and put it on the rug in front of the
fire, and held up another to be warmed. He thought he had never seen a
face so full of sweet, suffering tenderness. His heart bounded
suddenly with a thought so full of joy that he could hardly breathe.
She had driven the outlaw from her heart and already loved him; she had
learned to love him since he had been there. He could see it, feel it
in her every tender word and act, and he--God knew he loved her--loved
her with his whole wearied soul. Then the thought of her appeal to old
John Wambush and the lies she had told that night to save her lover
struck him like a blow in the face, and he felt himself turning cold
all over in the embrace of utter despair. "No, no, no!" he said, in
his heart, "she's not for me! I could never forget that--never! I've
always felt that the woman I loved must never have loved before, and
Wambush--ugh!"