oming with the horses and
sunset not far off. It might be weeks, even months, before he would see
her again.

"Allie, are you ever going to cheer up?" he demanded.

"No--no," she sighed.

He put his hand under her chin, and, forcing her face up, studied it
earnestly. Strained, white, bloodless, thin, with drooping lips and
tragic eyes, it was not a beautiful, not even a pretty face. But it
might have been one--very easily. The veiled, mournful eyes did
not evade his; indeed, they appeared to stare deeply, hopelessly,
yearningly. If he could only say and do the right thing to kill that
melancholia. She needed to be made to live. Suddenly he had the impulse
to kiss her. That, no doubt, was owing to the proximity of her lips. But
he must not kiss her. She might care for him some day--it was natural
to imagine she would. But she did not care now, and that made kisses
impossible.

"You just won't cheer up?" he went on.

"No--no."

"But you were so different out there by the brook."

She made no reply. The veil grew darker, more shadowy, over her eyes.
Neale divined a deadness in her.

"I'm going away," he said, sharply.

"Yes."

"Do you care?" He went on, with greater intensity.

She only stared at him.

"You MUST care!" he exclaimed.

"Why?" she asked, dully.

"Why!... Because--because--" he stammered, angry with himself. After
all, why should she care?

"I wish--you'd--left me--to die!" she moaned.

"Oh! Allie! Allie!" began Neale, in distress. Then he caught the
different quality in her voice. It carried feeling. She was thinking
again. He swore that he would overcome this malady of hers, and he grew
keen, subtle, on fire with his resolve. He watched her. He put his hands
on her shoulders and pulled her gently. She slid off the pile of buffalo
robes to her knees before him. Then she showed the only hint of shyness
he had ever noted in her. Perhaps it was fear. At any rate, she half
averted her face, so that her loosened hair hid it.

"Allie! Allie! Listen! Have you nothing to LIVE for?" he asked.

"No."

"Why, yes, you have."

"What?"

"Why, I--The thing is--Allie--you have ME!" he said, a little hoarsely.
Then he laughed. How strange his laugh sounded! He would always remember
that rude room of logs and furs and the kneeling girl in the dim light.

"YOU!"

"Yes, me," he replied, with a ring in his voice. Never before had she
put wonder in a word. He had struck the right chord at last. Now