I had figured I would just jog back to Sunk Creek and let
you get away, if you did not want to say that kind of good-by. For I saw
the boxes. Mrs. Taylor is too nice a woman to know the trick of lyin',
and she could not deceive me. I have knowed yu' were going away for good
ever since I saw those boxes. But now hyeh comes your letter, and it
seems no way but I must speak. I have thought a deal, lyin' in this
room. And--to-day--I can say what I have thought. I could not make you
happy." He stopped, but she did not answer. His voice had grown softer
than whispering, but yet was not a whisper. From its quiet syllables she
turned away, blinded with sudden tears.

"Once, I thought love must surely be enough," he continued. "And
I thought if I could make you love me, you could learn me to be
less--less-more your kind. And I think I could give you a pretty good
sort of love. But that don't help the little mean pesky things of day by
day that make roughness or smoothness for folks tied together so awful
close. Mrs. Taylor hyeh--she don't know anything better than Taylor
does. She don't want anything he can't give her. Her friends will do for
him and his for her. And when I dreamed of you in my home--" he closed
his eyes and drew a long breath. At last he looked at her again. "This
is no country for a lady. Will yu' forget and forgive the bothering I
have done?"

"Oh!" cried Molly. "Oh!" And she put her hands to her eyes. She had
risen and stood with her face covered.

"I surely had to tell you this all out, didn't I?" said the cow-puncher,
faintly, in his chair.

"Oh!" said Molly again.

"I have put it clear how it is," he pursued. "I ought to have seen from
the start I was not the sort to keep you happy."

"But," said Molly--"but I--you ought--please try to keep me happy!" And
sinking by his chair, she hid her face on his knees.

Speechless, he bent down and folded her round, putting his hands on the
hair that had been always his delight. Presently he whispered:-- "You
have beat me; how can I fight this?"

She answered nothing. The Navajo's scarlet and black folds fell over
both. Not with words, not even with meeting eyes, did the two plight
their troth in this first new hour. So they remained long, the fair head
nesting in the great arms, and the black head laid against it, while
over the silent room presided the little Grandmother Stark in her frame,
rosy, blue, and flaxen, not quite familiar, not quite smiling.