u wrong yourself. Neither you
nor that woman were happily married if--oh, I don't want to be
maudlin----"

"Bless your heart, Henry, you couldn't be, any more than I could. Perhaps
it's the New England conscience----"

"I haven't a New England conscience," replied Hard. "My conscience is as
elastic and pleasantly disposed as an Irishman's. Bunker Hill casts no
blight upon me."

"Henry, this is all very nice; but I'm dying of hunger."

"Will you be afraid to stay here if I go back to Casa Grande and fetch you
something?"

"Wild horses couldn't hold me in this God-forsaken spot without you,
Henry! Don't think of it. I--I'll go with you, though."

"You can't walk it."

"Then I'll die on the road. But how about your knee?" She stopped in
discouragement.

"What's a knee or two when you're starving to death?" demanded Hard, with
decision. "Come on, let's start before I get any stiffer."

They started out again, through the half darkness; walking slowly, for
Hard limped painfully. He had helped himself to a stout staff which he
found on the Soria veranda and which gave him some assistance. They were
very silent; Hard, because his mind was still running on Clara's words,
Clara, because she was honestly puzzled over the situation, and her own
feelings.

She watched the tall, thin figure, limping along by her side, and again
the old memories came back, as they had the night before in the darkness;
memories of the days when he and she had played at love.

"I wasn't in love with him, and yet, seeing him again, after all these
years, it seems as though I must have been," she thought, gently. "It's
friendship, and yet it's more than friendship. It's going to hurt
dreadfully to go away again."

"Clara, one more word before we drop the subject; because I will drop it
if it troubles you." Hard's voice came quietly through the darkness.
"Don't let us mistake each other again. I've tortured myself for fifteen
years, wondering whether I should have let you go as I did, or have tried
to hold you. Do you think, with fifteen years behind us, that we made a
mistake?"

Clara's voice trembled as she answered: "No, Henry, I don't. We were too
young to understand each other. We needed experience--at least, I did. I
don't know," she added, with a shadow of a laugh, "whether it's the
romantic situation, my enfeebled condition, or your noble heroism, but I
never felt more like being in love with you than I do this minute."

"Honest