impulse to wield her charm upon him, to make the woman prevail over the
man, beating all reason down, blindly, madly. And she yielded to this,
watching its effect on him, divining the power of her freshened beauty
each time she compelled his eyes. Instinctively she would have had him
say, "I give up. I can't go. Let me stay--stay by you!" The natural
woman in her fought for that. But reason reigned above the conflict. She
knew he would not surrender and knew she would not have him surrender.
Still she could not resist that impulse to enchain him, and exulted each
time she made him tremble at their nearness.

Not until night had come did the imminence of his going seem to lie upon
them. But then it lay with a weight. Together they left the camp and
felt a way over the darkened trail to the cabin. Ewing had spoken of
packing he must do, of matters in which she might help him.

But when they were in the studio, and he had started a great blaze in
the fireplace he sat before it with her, silent. She spoke at length of
the packing.

"There's none to do," he answered. "I'm taking scarcely anything--only
what I can carry back of the saddle."

Her blood leaped with a quick hope.

"Then you're not going for long--you _will_ come back--" But he only
shook his head.

"I can't expect to come back." He looked at her with a sudden lighting
of his eyes. "Come near to me this once." He moved a stool in front of
him. "Sit here, this once."

She sat on the low stool at his feet and felt herself drawn slowly
forward until her arms rested on his knees. She laid her head on them,
shaken to the heart. Then she felt him bending over her, hovering,
sheltering her, and at last, with a long sigh, come to rest, his face
buried in her hair. They remained so, immovable, without further speech.

The absurdity of the thing between them had never seemed so egregious
to her. The words rang in her mind, burning behind her closed
eyes--"It's all a mistake, that. How could you believe it, even you,
unused to the world though you are?" But she knew the questions this
would bring from him, the doubt that would stay with him; knew she could
never satisfy him with less than the truth. For a moment she heard
herself telling him this truth, gently, delicately, tenderly. But he
spoke, even while she was thinking this.

"I wanted to be here to-night with you, and with her." He raised his
head at last, to look at the portrait of his mother. "She underst