nd of a creature--a
miserable, whimpering fool that would let an old woman and a sick man rule
her! She was afraid her brother might die. What an excuse! And he had
killed, or at least sanctioned killing, for her sake. He had poured out
his blood for her. There was nothing he would not have dared or done to
have her. And here she had the soul of a sheep!

But no--perhaps that was not it. Perhaps she had been playing with him all
along, had never had any idea of marrying him--because he was a Mexican!

Bitter was this thought, but it died as his anger died. Something that sat
steady and clear inside of him told him that he was a fool. He was reading
the letter again, and he knew it was all truth. "There was nothing but
misery in sight either way," she had written.

Suddenly he understood; suffering and an awakened imagination had given
him insight. For the first time in his life, he realized the feelings of
another. He realized how much he had asked of this girl, who had all her
life been ruled, who had never tasted freedom nor practised self-reliance.
He saw now that she had rebelled and had fought against the forces and
fears that oppress youth, as had he, and that she had been bewildered and
overcome.

His anger was gone. All hot emotion was gone. In its place was a great
loneliness, tinged with pity. He looked at the letter again. Its
handwriting showed signs of disturbance in the writer, but she had not
forgotten to scent it with that faint delightful perfume which was forever
associated in his mind with her. It summoned the image of her with a
vividness he could not bear.

But courage and pride are not killed at a blow. He threw the letter aside
and shook himself sharply, like a man just awake trying to shake off the
memory of a nightmare. She was gone, she was lost. Well, what of it? There
were many other women in the world, many beautiful women. And he was
strong now, successful. One woman could not hurt him by her refusal. He
tried resolutely to put her out of his mind, and to think of his business,
of his plans. But these things which had glowed so brightly in his
imagination just a few hours before were suddenly as dead as cinders. He
knew that he cared little for dollars and lands in themselves. His nature
demanded a romantic object, and this love had given it to him. Love had
found him a wretch and a weakling, and had made him suddenly strong and
ruthless, bringing out all the colours of his being, dark