WESTWARD VISTAThe half-sunk sunBurns through the dusty-crimson sky;Streamers of gold and green soarIn radiating splendor, like the spokesOf God's unmeasurable chariot-wheelsHalf-hid and vanishing.Around me is coolness, ripeness and repose;The smell of gathered grain and fruits,And the musky breath of melons fills the air.The very dust is fruity, and the clickOf locusts' wings is like the closeOf gates upon great stores of wheat.The gathered barley bleaches in shock,The corn breathes on me from the west,And the sky-line widens on and onUntil I see the waves of yellow-greenBreak on the hills that face the snow and lilac peaksOf Colorado's mountains.
WESTWARD VISTA
The half-sunk sunBurns through the dusty-crimson sky;Streamers of gold and green soarIn radiating splendor, like the spokesOf God's unmeasurable chariot-wheelsHalf-hid and vanishing.Around me is coolness, ripeness and repose;The smell of gathered grain and fruits,And the musky breath of melons fills the air.The very dust is fruity, and the clickOf locusts' wings is like the closeOf gates upon great stores of wheat.The gathered barley bleaches in shock,The corn breathes on me from the west,And the sky-line widens on and onUntil I see the waves of yellow-greenBreak on the hills that face the snow and lilac peaksOf Colorado's mountains.
At first Clement's happiness had no further base of uneasiness than the lover's fear of loss. It all seemed too good to be true, and he had a hidden fear that something might happen to set him back where he was before she came. It was quite like his feeling about his mine—it took him a certain length of time before he ceased to dream of its sudden loss, and now it seemed (when absent from her) that it would be easy for something to rob him of this love which was his life.
This feeling was mixed, too, with a feeling of his unworthiness, which deepened the more closely he studied her. She was so free from all bruise and stain of life's battle. There were no questionable places in her life. Could he say as much?
Whenever he asked himself the question his dealings with the stockholders of "The Biddy" came into his mind. Could he afford to tell his bride all the facts in the case? This feeling of dissatisfaction with himself led him to do many extravagant things. He presented her with beautiful and costly jewels for which she had little taste.
"Why, Richard. What made you think of that?" she said once after he had slipped away to the city to buy her something.
"Is it so very pretty?"
"It is beautiful! But can we afford such things?"
"We can afford anything that will make you happy."
He made a similar answer when she drew back a little startled at the cost of the house he had contracted for.
"Why, it is a palace!"
"The best is scarcely good enough for you." After a moment he added, "You see, I know you can never live East again,and I want you to have all the comforts of a palace out here. And so long as 'The Witch' holds out you shall have your heart's desire."
Mr. Ross had come to have a profound respect for his future son-in-law. "I can't say that he don't make as much of a fool of himself as any prospective bridegroom, but he is a business man at the same time. He don't lose his head, by any means." He was telling his son about Clement. "He is devoted to your sister, but I went over to his mine with him the other day and it is perfectly certain that he understands his business. He is only reckless when buying things for Ellice. He'll take care of her and the mine, too."
Clement felt a certain incongruity every time he put on his miner's dress and went through the mine. "I'm too rough for her, too old," he kept thinking—trying to conceal the real cause of his growing fear.
He was not honest with himself. He fought round the real point of danger.He gave a generous sum to the library, aided a hospital, and did other things which should ease a bad conscience, and yet do not. He hastened the house forward, and passed to and fro between his mine, the Springs and the city in ceaseless activity.
The marriage was set for July, just a year from the time he first saw her, and the winter passed quickly, so busied was he in building and planning the home. He grew less and less buoyant and more careworn as spring wore on, and Ellice could not understand the change. He was moody and changeable even in her presence. This troubled her, and she often asked:
"What is the matter, Richard? Is your business going wrong?"
"No, oh no. Business is all right. Nothing is the matter." And ended by convincing her that something was very much wrong indeed. And she grieved in silence, not daring to question him further.
The self-revealing touch came to him ina curious way only a few days before their wedding day. He was in camp on a final inspection of his mine, and was walking the streets at night, silent, self-absorbed and gloomy. He had grown morbid and unwholesome in his thought, and the wreck of his happiness seemed already complete. He spent a great deal of time in long and lonely walks.
The street swarmed with rough, noisy miners. A band of evangelists, with drums and tambourines, occupied the central corner. A low, continuous hum of talk could be heard at the base of all other noises.
Being in no mood for companionship Clement stood aside from it all, thinking how far above all this life his beautiful bride was.
There had been in the camp for some weeks a certain sensational evangelist—a man of some power, but of unhappy disposition apparently. At any rate he had been in much trouble with the city authorities. He had been called a "hypocriteand fake" in the public press, and had been prosecuted for disturbance of the peace. But he seemed to thrive on such treatment.
Clement had paid very little attention to the man and his troubles, but as he looked down the street at the crowd around the speakers on the corner it occurred to him to wonder if they were the fighting evangelists.
He was about to move that way when he observed near him in the dark middle of the street a man and a woman.
"This will do as well as anywhere," the man said, putting down a small box. He wore a broad cowboy hat, and a long coat which hung unbuttoned down his powerful figure. The woman was tall and slender, and neatly dressed in gray. Clement understood that these were the persecuted ones.
The man mounted the box, and in a powerful but not very musical voice began to sing a hymn full of cowboy slang. His singing had a quality not usual instreet singers, and a crowd quickly gathered about him. His song was long and not without a rude poetry. He began his address at last by issuing a defiance to his enemies. This would mean little in an Eastern village, perhaps, but in a mining camp, even a degenerate mining camp, it might mean a great deal—life or death, in fact.
"Now, gentlemen, I want to say something as a preface in order to know just where we stand. Some citizens of the town have vilified me in private and in the public press—over an assumed name, however. It wouldn't be healthy for any man to do it openly. The man is a liar—but I don't care about myself. It is a little difference of opinion among men, but some miscreant has reflected upon the good name of my wife. Now let me say that the man that says my wife is not a lady and a woman of the highest character, insults the mother of my children and will answer to me for every word he utters."
A little thrill of interest and awe ran through the crowd. The man's voice meant battle, and battle to the hilt of the bowie. It was so easy to prove a mark for desperate men, but there was no fear in the attitude of the speaker. He had come up through a wild life, and knew his audience, his accuser and himself.
His voice took a sudden change—it grew tender and reverent. "I am here to preach the gospel of Christ and Him crucified. I may not do it in the best way always, but I do it as well as I know how." Here his tone grew severely earnest and savage again, as he added: "But I shall defend the honor of my wife with my life."
His voice and pose were magnificent—lion-like.
His manner changed again with dramatic suddenness. He took the whole street into his confidence.
"I love my wife, gentlemen. She has borne three children to me. She is a good woman. A mighty sight smarterand better than I am, but she can't defend herself against sneaks and reptilious liars. I can. That's part of my business. I tell you, boys," he added in a low voice very sincere and winning, "they ain't no man good enough to marry a good woman; it's just her good, pure, kind heart gives him any show at all."
A sudden lump rose in Clement's throat. The man's deep humility and loyalty and apparent sincerity had gone straight to his own heart and touched him in a very sensitive place. He turned away and sought the deeper shadow with his head bowed in black despair.
He thought of the eyes of his bride with a shudder almost of fear. Could he ever face her again?
"Oh, God! How pure and dainty and unspotted she is, and I—I am unclean."
He saw as clearly as if a light had been turned in upon his secret thought, that the ownership of "The Witch" was in question. He had not been candid with her—he had been dishonest. He had notdared to let her know how he had secured control of that stock.
All the way back to the Springs he wrestled with himself about it. He ended by reasserting the justice of his position, and resolved to tell her at once the whole story and let her judge. He had in his pocket the deed to the house and lot, which he determined now to give her at once, and to make explanations at the same time.
This he did. He called to see her the following afternoon and found her surrounded with women and gowns and flowers. The women fled when he approached, but the gowns and flowers remained, and there was talk upon them till at last, in sheer desperation, Clement said:
"Ellice, here is something that I want to give you now. It is my wedding gift."
He placed in her hand the deed. She looked at it.
"Oh, there's so much fine print. I can't read it now. What is it?"
"It is the deed to the new home."
Her eyes misted with quick emotion.
"How good you are to me, Richard."
"No, it's precaution," he replied as lightly as he could. "We will have a home always if you don't lose it in some wild speculation."
She put her arms about his neck, an infrequent caress with her.
"How rich we are. God is good to us. And is it not good to think that our wealth does not come from anybody's misery? It comes out of the earth like a spring—like the spring that made me well."
As he looked down into her face it seemed lit from within by some Heavenly light, and her voice made his head grow dizzy. He could not tell her his story then.
He sat down and listened to her talk. She wanted to know what troubled him, and he was forced to lie.
"Oh, nothing. I'm a little worried about a—new piece of machinery." Thisgave him a thought. "I must be away this evening. I can't take dinner with you."
She was not one of those who worry with expostulations or complainings. She had a mind of her own, and she granted the same decision to others.
"Very well," she said, and she flashed a sudden roguish look at him. "Don't forget to breakfast with me."
He had the grace to return her smile as he said:
"Oh, I'll not forget. I've charged my mind with it."
His going was like a flight. His inner cry was this:
"My God! I am absolutely unworthy of her. I am big, coarse and dishonest—unfit to touch her hand."
His gloomy face and bent head was a subject of joke for the acquaintances he met on the street.
"Saddle Susanna," he called sharply to his Mexican hostler. He had made up his mind to radical measures.
As he sat in his room with his face buried in his hands shutting out the light of the splendid sunset, he saw her as she sat among her soft silks and dainty flowers. Her lovely eyes and the exquisite texture of her skin grew more and more wonderful to him. The touch of his lips to hers came to seem an act of pollution, almost of envenoming, as he brooded on his unworthiness.
He wrote a note to her on the impulse of the moment. The missive read:
"I am not fit to see you, to touch you. I am going away across the divide to make restitution for a great wrong I have done. If I do not I can never face you again. When I see you again I will be an honest man, or I—if you think me worthy of forgiveness I will see you and ask it to-morrow.Richard."
"I am not fit to see you, to touch you. I am going away across the divide to make restitution for a great wrong I have done. If I do not I can never face you again. When I see you again I will be an honest man, or I—if you think me worthy of forgiveness I will see you and ask it to-morrow.
Richard."
He added as a postscript:
"I am well. I am not crazy, but I am not an honest man. I can't kiss you again till I am."
"I am well. I am not crazy, but I am not an honest man. I can't kiss you again till I am."
Upon reading this note he saw it would frighten her, and keep her in agony of suspense, therefore he tore it up, andrushing out of the house leaped into the saddle.
The spirited little broncho was fresh and mettlesome, and went off in a series of sheeplike bounds which her rider seemed not to notice.
He drew rein at the telegraph office, and there sent three telegrams. They were all alike:
"Meet me at the office at midnight. Important."
"Meet me at the office at midnight. Important."
As he turned Susanna's head up the trail the mountains stood deep purple silhouettes against the cloudlessness of the sky. The wind blew from the heights cool and fragrant, and the little horse set nostril to it as if she anticipated and welcomed the hard ride.
The way lay over forbidding mountain passes ten thousand feet above the sea, and her rider was a heavy man. But Susanna was of broncho strain with a blooded sire, which makes the hardiest and swiftest mountain horse in the world.
Clement's mind cleared as he began theascent—cleared but did not rest. Over and over the problem came, each time clearer and more difficult. He must that night give away a hundred and thirty-five thousand dollars—terrible ordeal! Ninety thousand dollars to go to an old Irishman and his wife—both ignorant, careless.
What would they do with it? It might drive them crazy. As they now lived they were comfortable. He had made Dan sub-superintendent of the mine, and he had rebuilt the eating-house for Biddy. Could they take care of the big fortune he was about to give them?
Ought he not to give them a few thousands—such sum as they could comprehend and take care of? Would it not be better for them?
Then there was forty-five thousand dollars to be given to a cheap little man—that was hardest of all, for he had come to hate the sight of the sleek black head of Arthur Eldred. Yes, but he had saved the day. He had put in six hundred dollars when every dollar was a ducat.True, but the reward was too great. A hundred thousand dollars for six hundred.
Oh, this was familiar ground! He had gone over it in a sort of sub-conscious way a hundred times, each time apparently the final one. It had been quite settled when this slender little woman first lifted her face to him, and now nothing was settled.
It was very still and cold. There was no stream to sing up through the pines, and no wind in the pines to answer should the stream call. Nothing seemed to be stirring save the pensive man and his faithful pony.
Reaching the upper levels he spurred on at a gallop, finding some relief in the pounding action of the saddle and in the rush of air past his ears. The moon was late, but when it came it seemed to help him, lightening his mood as it lightened the trail. The big ledges and lowering, lesser peaks lifted into the dark sky weirdly translucent, and their upper edges seemed smooth and graceful as therims of bubbles. Solid rock seemed melted and transfused with light and air. It was all miraculously beautiful, and the sore-hearted man lifted his eyes to the heights seeing the face of a girl in every moonlit rock and in every wayside pool.
As he entered the office he found them all waiting for him—Dan and Biddy in their best dress, and Eldred with a supercilious half-grin, half-scowl on his face.
Clement nodded at him, but said "Hello" to Dan and "Good-evening" to Biddy. Conly, his trusted, discreet cashier, was at his desk, and the office was dimly lit with a single electric bulb.
Dan and Biddy greeted him cautiously, for Eldred had filled their simple souls with suspicion. "He wants to compromise. He's afraid of our suit against him."
As a matter of fact Dan would never put a dollar into the plan for a suit, and it had never gone beyond Eldred's talk—and yet he had made them suspicious. Dan was forced to confess that Clementwas becoming an "a-ristocrat." And Biddy acknowledged that he "sildom dairkened her dure these days." They had always felt his superiority and refinement, and they rose as he entered.
He wasted no time in preliminaries. "Sit down," he said imperiously, and his face, when he turned to the light, was knotted with trouble. He sat for a moment with bent head while he strengthened his heart to a bitter and humiliating task. He began abruptly:
"Dan, you remember the time I brought the amalgam home in a vial and it had turned green?"
"I do. Yis."
"You remember that you gave it up right then."
"I did. I said it's 'witch's gould.'"
"Sure such it looked like that day," said Biddy.
"All the same, the thing which scared you put a happy thought into my head, and I felt then I could solve it." He lifted his head and looked around defiantly."In short, when I bought your stock in at ten cents on the dollar I knew it was worth par, for I had solved the process."
There was a silence very awesome following the defiant ring of the voice.
Eldred was the first to comprehend what it meant. His eyes glittered like those of an awakened rat.
"Do you mean that? If that's true you robbed us, you thief, robbed us cold and clean." He sprang up. "I knew you'd do something——"
"Sit down," interrupted Clement harshly. "I'm not going to have any words with you. If I had seen fit not to tell you of this how much would you have known of it? Sit down and keep your tongue between your teeth." He turned to Dan and his voice was softer. "Dan, when I was hungry you took me in and fed me. For that I've given you a good position. Is that debt paid?"
"Sure, Clement, me boy, it was only a sup of p'taties an' bacon, annyway."
"Biddy, I turned over two thousand dollars to you, and rebuilt your eating-house. You thought that paid the debt I owed you?"
Biddy was slower to answer. "For all the grub an' the loikes o' that, indade yis, Mr. Clement—but sure we wor pardners——"
Clement interrupted. "I know. I'm coming to that. Now answer me. If it hadn't been for me wouldn't you have thrown up the sponge long before you did?"
The silence of the little group answered him.
"Would any of you ever have worked out the mystery of that ore? Weren't you all anxious to sell for anything you could get?"
They were all silent as before.
"I made the mine worth money. I discovered the secret, it was my invention. I paid you four times what you had put into it. The mine was worthless until I invented a process for saving the gold. Iclaimed it as an invention like any man claims a patent right. I believed I had a right to it—to all of it, and so I bought in your stock after I had solved the problem of the reduction. I say I believed I was right—to-night I believe I was wrong—it don't matter how I came to the conclusion, but I've changed my mind. I have come to-night to make restitution. I am ready to pay you ninety cents more on every dollar of stock you sold me at that time."
Biddy gasped: "Howly Saints!"
Dan leaped up with a wild hurrah. "Listen to that now!" he cried, with other incoherences. He shook Clement's hand and kissed Biddy. He praised Clement.
"Ye're the whitest man that iver stepped green turf."
Clement sat coldly impassive and unsmiling.
"Then you're satisfied?"
"Satisfied!" shouted Dan. "Satisfied is it, man? Indade I am."
"And you, Biddy?"
Biddy was weeping and muttering wild Irish prayers. "Dan, dear, do ye understand, it's forty-five thousand dollars apiece to the two of us. Oh, the blessed old Ireland! I'll go back sure. Oh, it's too good to be true—we must be dramin'."
Clement looked at the distracted woman with a flush of self-righteousness. He had been right in his fears. It seemed like to ruin the simple souls. He turned to Eldred, who sat in silence.
"What have you to say?"
Eldred sneered. "I say you can't fool me. These shares are worth seventeen dollars and eighty cents each. I want their market value, not their par value. I want one-quarter the present value of 'The Witch.'"
Clement's brow darkened and his eyes burned with a fierce steady light.
"Is that all you want? If I served you right I'd kick you out of the door and let you do your worst. I know if you sue that you can't recover one dollar from me.But I have my reasons for putting up with your insolence. I will pay you forty-five thousand dollars and not one cent more. The market value of 'The Witch' to-day I have made by my management. I have gone on improving the mine day by day. As it stands it is a new property. You were a quarter owner in 'The Biddy.' We capitalized 'The Biddy' at your own suggestion at two hundred thousand dollars, because we wanted it big enough to cover all values. When I render you your share of that I am doing you justice. John, make out three checks for forty-five thousand dollars each."
Dan and Biddy turned upon Eldred and talked him into silence, but he was unconvinced.
Clement refused to touch the checks, and the clerk said: "Here is yours, Biddy."
Biddy went up and took the slip in her hands. "Is that little slip o' white paper really worth so much?"
"Call at the bank and get your moneywhen you want it," said the imperturbable cashier.
Dan studied his check, his face foolish with joy.
Eldred took his, saying, "This puts into my hands the means to fight."
Clement merely nodded. "You know my address." Eldred went out without further word.
When the door closed on him Clement's face lost its sternness, and he became sad and tender.
His struggle was not yet done. His mind was clear about the man who came in at the eleventh hour, but it was not clear with regard to these true-hearted old friends who had been with him from the first. He recalled the time when Dan's big arm had helped him to a chair, and Biddy had put the steaming soup before him—food worth all the gold in the world at that moment. He recalled her broad, kindly face, hot and shining from the stove; he remembered their struggles, their sacrifices.
"Wait a moment, Biddy," he said, as they called out "Good-night," and started to leave.
"Sit down a moment, and you, too, Dan. I want to talk over old times a while."
They sat down in stupefaction.
"Biddy, do you remember the money you squandered on the lottery ticket?"
A slow smile broadened her face. "I do, Mister Clement—and I remember I won the prize sure!"
"You did, and saved all our lives. Dan, do you remember the day we lost our last five-dollar gold piece in the grass?"
Dan slapped his knee. "Do I? I wore me hands raw as beef combin' the grass that day."
"Ah, those were great days. We had days when forty-five cents would have made us joyous, and here you are with ninety thousand dollars, and wishin' for more."
Dan laughed again. "Sure, that's no lie."
"It is, Dan Kelly," said Biddy. "I have enough—too much. My heart misgives me now. I'm afraid of it, sure. I'm scared to carry it away wid me."
"You're safe, Biddy; nobody will steal that check." A sudden impulse seized him. "Dan, you believed in me in those days—give me that check." Dan slowly handed to him the check. Clement took it and turned. "Biddy, you fed me when I was starving, and you pawned everything you had to 'grub-stake' me—give me your check." She handed it to him without hesitation. He tore them into small pieces.
"Dan, you are mining boss, and I make you both quarter owners in 'The Witch' with all I have, and share and share alike, as we did when we hadn't a dime. Now hurrah for 'The Witch.'"
Nobody shouted but the cashier. Dan sat in a stupor, and Biddy was weeping, with one arm flung around Dan's neck. Dan was turning his hat around on his fingers and staring at Clement's face forsome solution to the situation. It was beyond his imagination.
Clement did not speak again for some moments. When he did his voice was husky and tremulous with emotion. "You notice I say quarter interest—that's because there is a new member in the firm now. She comes in to-morrow. I want you to see how she looks." He extended a picture of Ellice to Biddy. She made a marvelous dramatic shift of features, and a smile of admiration broke through the red of her broad countenance.
"Oh, the swate, blessed angel. Sure, she's beautiful as one of the saints in the church. Luk at her, Dan."
"I'm lukin'. She's none too good for him."
"Don't say that, Dan!" Clement protested in an earnest tone. "All you have to-night you owe to her. All the best thoughts in me to-day I owe to her."
There remained to him now all the joy of riding back to tell her of his purification of soul. His heart was so joyous it kept time to every happy song in the world.
The gloom and doubt of himself had passed away, but the wonder and mystery of woman's love for man remained. He felt himself to be an honest man, but a man big, crude and coarse compared to her beauty and delicacy. He marveled at her bravery and her magnanimity. Leaving Susanna he leaped upon a fresh horse and set off, riding fast toward the divide. The wind had risen and was blowing from the dim domes of the highest mountains—a cold wind, and he would have said a sad wind had his heart not been so light. As it was, he lifted his bared forehead to it exultantly.
He put behind him, so far as in hispower lay, all thought of the great wealth he had given away. He was eager to pour out the whole story to her, and hear her say, "Well done, Richard."
Over and over again his thought ran: "Now I am an honest man. I am not worthy of her, but at least my heart is clean."
Henceforth she was to be his altar of sacrifice. All he did would be for her approval. All there was of his money, his inventive skill, his command of men, should be hers. She should regulate every hour of his coming and going, and share all the plans and purposes of his life.
"Oh, I must live right, and deal justly," he thought. "I must be a better man from this time forth."
In the east the pale lances of the coming sun pierced the breasts of the soaring gray clouds, and, behold, they grew to be the most splendid orange and red and purple. The stars began to pale, and as he came to the eastern slope where the plain stretched to dim splendor, like amotionless sea of russet and purple, the sun was rising.
The plain seemed lonely and desolate of life, so far below was it. All action was lost in the mist of immensity—men's stature that of the most minute insects. And down there in the pathway of the morning was the little woman of all the world waiting for him!
As he rode down the slope to the river level into the town the sun was swinging, big and red, high above the horizon. His long ride had made him look wan and pale, but he ordered coffee and a biscuit, and was glad to find it helped him to look less wan and sorrowful. He dressed with great care, then sat down to wait. At 7:30 o'clock he sent a note to her:
"I have not forgotten. When do you breakfast?"
"I have not forgotten. When do you breakfast?"
She replied:
"Good-morning, dearest. Breakfast is ready; come as soon as you can."
"Good-morning, dearest. Breakfast is ready; come as soon as you can."
He entered the room with the heart ofa boy, the presence of an athlete. He was at his prime of robust manhood, and his physical pride was unconscious.
She was proud of him, and met him more than half way in his greeting. Her face was still slender and delicate of color, but in her eyes was a serene brightness, and her lips were tremulous with happiness.
She led him to the little table. "Now you mustn't call this breakfast," she explained. "This is a private cup of coffee to sustain us through the ordeal. We all breakfast immediately after the ceremony."
"I've had one breakfast this morning."
She looked dismayed.
"At least a roll and a cup of coffee," he hastened to explain. "However, I think I could eat all there is here and not be inconvenienced."
They sat down and looked at each other in silence. She spoke first.
"Just think, this is the last time you will ever sit down with Miss Ross."
"You seem to be sad about it."
"I am—and yet I am very happy. I don't suppose you men can understand, but a woman wants to marry the man she loves—and yet she is sad at leaving girlhood behind. Now let me see, you take two lumps, don't you? I must not forget that. It makes the waiter stare when a wife can't remember how many lumps of sugar her husband takes."
He felt his courage oozing away, and so began abruptly:
"Ellice, I have a story to tell and a confession to make to you."
She looked a little startled. "That sounds ominous, Richard—like the villain in the play, only he makes his confession after marriage."
He was very sober indeed now. "That's the reason I make mine now. I want you to know just what I am before you marry me."
She leaned her chin on her clasped hands and looked at him. "Tell me all about it."
He did. He began at the beginning, and while it would not be true to say he did not spare himself, he told the story as it actually happened. He concealed no essential.
"I rode there and back last night simply because I couldn't kiss you again until I had made myself an honest man."
She reached out and clutched the hand which lay on the table near her—a sudden convulsive embrace.
"Last night?"
"Yes, I've been to the camp since I left you last night. I couldn't stand with you—there—before all our friends, till I could say I had no other man's money in my pockets."
She took his hand in both of her own and bent her head and touched her cheek to his fingers. She was very deeply moved.
And he—though his voice choked—faltered through:
"I gave it all back, dear—I mean I gave over to Biddy and Dan their fullshare—they are equal owners with you and me in 'The Witch.' I tried to withhold some of it; it was hard to give it all back; but I did it because I believed you would approve of it. And now, if you will let me, I can call you my wife with a clear conscience."
For answer she rose and came to his side, and put her arms about his neck and laid a kiss on his upturned face. Words were of no avail. In his heart the man was still afraid of one so good and loving.
THE END
Transcriber's Note:
The Table of Contents was not part of the original book.