wouldn't touch the money that we hadn't earned fairly, and didn't belong
to us. No, miss, I ain't that sort o' man!"

How much of this speech, in its brusqueness and slang, was an echo
of Yuba Bill's teaching, how much of it was a part of Jeff's inward
weakness, I cannot say. He saw Miss Mayfield recoil from him. It added
to his bitterness that his thought, for the first time voiced, appeared
to him by no means as effective or powerful as he had imagined it would
be, but he could not recede from it; and there was the relief that the
worst had come, and was over now.

Miss Mayfield took her hand out of her pocket. "I don't think you
quite understand me, Mr. Jeff," she said quietly; "and I HOPE I don't
understand you." She walked stiffly at his side for a few moments, but
finally took the other side of the road. They had both turned, half
unconsciously, back again to the "Half-way House."

Jeff felt, like all quarrel-seekers, righteous or unrighteous, the full
burden of the fight. If he could have relieved his mind, and at the
next moment leaped upon Yuba Bill's coach, and so passed away--without a
further word of explanation--all would have been well. But to walk back
with this girl, whom he had just shaken off, and who must now thoroughly
hate him, was something he had not preconceived, in that delightful
forecast of the imagination, when we determine what WE shall say and
do without the least consideration of what may be said or done to us in
return. No quarrel proceeds exactly as we expect; people have such a
way of behaving illogically! And here was Miss Mayfield, who was clearly
derelict, and who should have acted under that conviction, walking along
on the other side of the road, trailing the splendor of her parasol in
the dust like an offended goddess.