ell, one
of the old heathen--Heraclitus, wasn't it?--remarked that the ass, after
all, would have his thistles rather than much fine gold."

She laughed. "Dad would say, the more ass he, if he wouldn't."

"I know--we'd rather have our own particular thistles, each of us. But
to live a day or two before we die, Nell! Come with me--stop trying to
mount the whirlwind. You'll only be thrown."

Again she shook her head, and gently shaped "No!" with her lips. It was
too unemotionally decisive to warrant of any further urging, and he
became silent, with something of pain in his face that her eye caught.

"I'm sorry, Alden--I've never liked you better--but I'd rather you
didn't ask."

"You wouldn't have come before, would you, Nell--three months ago?" And
she answered "No" again, very quickly.

"I must play my little game out in my own way," she continued. "I must
stay beside some one--beside people--who still have heart for trying."

"Someone, Nell?"

She caught her lip.

"Everyone who has fresh hope and stubbornness in defeat."

"If you'd let me, Nell--" There was the note of real pleading in his
tone.

"No, Alden."

"Friends, though?" he queried, seeming at last convinced.

She thought there was a trace of bitterness in his voice, but she
answered, "Friends, surely, Alden."

"We've skirted this thing often, Nell, but you never seemed certain
before."

"I didn't--I think I never was _quite_ so certain before, Alden--but now
I'm driven all one way."

"I believe that." He rose and spoke in a livelier manner. "But if you
won't be wise for me, Nell, be wise for some one else. For God's sake
feel a little worry about your health. I say you look unpromising at
this moment."

"I've always been well," she insisted brightly.

"And, Nell, I've wanted to be so much more than a friend to you that my
feelings are a bit blurred just now--but I believe I'll always do what a
friend should."

CHAPTER XIX

THE UNBLAZED WAY

Ewing was loath to sleep that night, for in sleep he must leave the
thought of her who, having been only a picture to him, had come suddenly
to life. The magic would have seemed no greater if his own mother had
issued livingly from the canvas. How it had happened he knew not, but
this woman was all at once the living spring of his life. The thought of
her was a golden mist enveloping him. He did not once call it love, but
he thought of the gracious women he had loved in books, and knew s