gurgling of the stream far below on the canyon bottom.

She looked down at the man. "Well?" she asked, with the firmness which
feigns belief that obedience will be forthcoming.

She was sitting upright, her back against a fallen tree-trunk, while
he lay near to her, on his side, an elbow on the ground and the hand
supporting his head.

"Dear, dear Lute," he murmured.

She shivered at the sound of his voice--not from repulsion, but from
struggle against the fascination of its caressing gentleness. She had
come to know well the lure of the man--the wealth of easement and rest
that was promised by every caressing intonation of his voice, by the
mere touch of hand on hand or the faint impact of his breath on neck
or cheek. The man could not express himself by word nor look nor touch
without weaving into the expression, subtly and occultly, the feeling as
of a hand that passed and that in passing stroked softly and soothingly.
Nor was this all-pervading caress a something that cloyed with too great
sweetness; nor was it sickly sentimental; nor was it maudlin with love's
madness. It was vigorous, compelling, masculine. For that matter, it was
largely unconscious on the man's part. He was only dimly aware of it.
It was a part of him, the breath of his soul as it were, involuntary and
unpremeditated.

But now, resolved and desperate, she steeled herself against him. He
tried to face her, but her gray eyes looked out to him, steadily, from
under cool, level brows, and he dropped his head upon her knee. Her hand
strayed into his hair softly, and her face melted into solicitude and
tenderness. But when he looked up again, her gray eyes were steady, her
brows cool and level.

"What more can I tell you?" the man said. He raised his head and met
her gaze. "I cannot marry you. I cannot marry any woman. I love you--you
know that--better than my own life. I weigh you in the scales against
all the dear things of living, and you outweigh everything. I would
give everything to possess you, yet I may not. I cannot marry you. I can
never marry you."

Her lips were compressed with the effort of control. His head was
sinking back to her knee, when she checked him.

"You are already married, Chris?"

"No! no!" he cried vehemently. "I have never been married. I want to
marry only you, and I cannot!"

"Then--"

"Don't!" he interrupted. "Don't ask me!"

"It is my right to know," she repeated.

"I know it," he again interrupted. "B