me delicate thing suddenly exposed to blasting heat, the girl
wilted; her head dropped, and into her white, wasted cheeks crept the
red of shame.

Venters would have given anything to recall that question. It seemed
so different--his thought when spoken. Yet her shame established in his
mind something akin to the respect he had strangely been hungering to
feel for her.

"D--n that question!--forget it!" he cried, in a passion of pain for her
and anger at himself. "But once and for all--tell me--I know it, yet I
want to hear you say so--you couldn't help yourself?"

"Oh no."

"Well, that makes it all right with me," he went on, honestly. "I--I
want you to feel that... you see--we've been thrown together--and--and I
want to help you--not hurt you. I thought life had been cruel to me, but
when I think of yours I feel mean and little for my complaining. Anyway,
I was a lonely outcast. And now!... I don't see very clearly what it all
means. Only we are here--together. We've got to stay here, for long,
surely till you are well. But you'll never go back to Oldring. And I'm
sure helping you will help me, for I was sick in mind. There's something
now for me to do. And if I can win back your strength--then get you
away, out of this wild country--help you somehow to a happier life--just
think how good that'll be for me!"

CHAPTER X. LOVE

During all these waiting days Venters, with the exception of the
afternoon when he had built the gate in the gorge, had scarcely gone
out of sight of camp and never out of hearing. His desire to explore
Surprise Valley was keen, and on the morning after his long talk with
the girl he took his rifle and, calling Ring, made a move to start. The
girl lay back in a rude chair of boughs he had put together for her. She
had been watching him, and when he picked up the gun and called the dog
Venters thought she gave a nervous start.

"I'm only going to look over the valley," he said.

"Will you be gone long?"

"No," he replied, and started off. The incident set him thinking of his
former impression that, after her recovery from fever, she did not seem
at ease unless he was close at hand. It was fear of being alone, due, he
concluded, most likely to her weakened condition. He must not leave her
much alone.

As he strode down the sloping terrace, rabbits scampered before him,
and the beautiful valley quail, as purple in color as the sage on the
uplands, ran fleetly along the ground into t