outdoor
existence for the rest of my life. That at least never palled. I
determined to come to California. It was an impulse; I hardly speculated
upon whether I should remain or not. As the train slid down the Sierras,
I knew that I should. Memories jumbled, and I made no effort to pull
them apart. For the first time in my life I wanted a home and a wife.
The night we met I felt more attracted to you than to the other charming
Californians I had met because you seemed more a part of the country. It
is singular that a man should love the country first, and the woman as a
logical result, but I did. I think that you know I love you; but not how
much, nor what it means to me. I am not good enough for you. My soul is
old. I see life exactly as it is. I have not an illusion. I am as
prosaic as are all men who have made a business of the pleasures of
life. I could not make you a perfervid or romantic speech to save my
life, and as the selfishness of a lifetime has made me moody and fitful,
there will be intervals when I shall be the reverse of lover-like; but
on the whole I think you will find me a rather ardent lover. It seems
very little to offer a girl who has everything to give. But I love you;
never doubt that. What little good was left in me you have coaxed up and
trained to something like its original proportions. I want you to
understand what my past has been; but I also want you to understand that
I am not the same man I was six months ago, and that you have worked the
change. When I crossed the continent, it is no exaggeration to say that
I had Hell in me,--that ferment of spirit which means mental nausea and
the desperate dodging of one's accusing soul. I suppose such a time
comes to most men who have persistently violated the original instinct
for good. With the lower orders it means crime; with the higher
civilisation a legion of imps shrieking in a man's soul. I will not say
that my particular band have been silent since I came here, for that
would mean moral obtuseness; but they are placated, and have consented
to fix a generous eye on the future. I believe, firmly believe, that my
future will atone for my past,--morally, I mean; I want you to
understand that I have wronged no man but myself, that I have been
guilty of no act unbecoming a gentleman. Now look at me and tell me that
you do not hate me."

Magdalena lifted her face. Her lips were dry and parted, her eyes
expanded, but not with horror.

"I love yo