attended to that himself.

Joan went to the seat by the tree, near the camp-fire. A purple
twilight was shadowing the canon. Far above, on the bold peak the
last warmth of the afterglow was fading. There was no wind, no
sound, no movement. Joan wondered where Jim Cleve was then. They had
often sat in the twilight. She felt an unreasonable resentment
toward him, knowing she was to blame, but blaming him for her
plight. Then suddenly she thought of her uncle, of home, of her
kindly old aunt who always worried so about her. Indeed, there was
cause to worry. She felt sorrier for them than for herself. And that
broke her spirit momentarily. Forlorn, and with a wave of sudden
sorrow and dread and hopelessness, she dropped her head upon her
knees and covered her face. Tears were a relief. She forgot Kells
and the part she must play. But she remembered swiftly--at the rude
touch of his hand.

"Here! Are you crying?" he asked, roughly.

"Do you think I'm laughing?" Joan retorted. Her wet eyes, as she
raised them, were proof enough.

"Stop it."

"I can't help--but cry--a little. I was th--thinking of home--of
those who've been father and mother to me--since I was a baby. I
wasn't crying--for myself. But they--they'll be so miserable. They
loved me so."

"It won't help matters to cry."