But I left them
and went around with her. That snub cut her to the heart. She was
lonely. She had no friends. She talked about herself--how she hated
the people, but loved Arizona. She had nothin' fit to wear. I didn't
need to be told that she'd been used to better things. Just when it
looked as if we were goin' to be friends she told me who she was and
asked me my name. I told her. Jean, I couldn't have hurt her more if
I'd slapped her face. She turned white. She gasped. And then she ran
off. The last time I saw her was about a year ago. I was ridin' a
short-cut trail to the ranch where a friend lived. And I met Ellen
Jorth ridin' with a man I'd never seen. The trail was overgrown and
shady. They were ridin' close and didn't see me right off. The man
had his arm round her. She pushed him away. I saw her laugh. Then he
got hold of her again and was kissin' her when his horse shied at sight
of mine. They rode by me then. Ellen Jorth held her head high and
never looked at me."

"Ann, do you think she's a bad girl?" demanded Jean, bluntly.

"Bad? Oh, Jean!" exclaimed Ann, in surprise and embarrassment.

"Dad said she was a damned hussy."

"Jean, dad hates the Jorths."

"Sister, I'm askin' you what you think of Ellen Jorth. Would you be
friends with her if you could?"

"Yes."

"Then you don't believe she's bad."

"No. Ellen Jorth is lonely, unhappy. She has no mother. She lives
alone among rough men. Such a girl can't keep men from handlin' her
and kissin' her. Maybe she's too free. Maybe she's wild. But she's
honest, Jean. You can trust a woman to tell. When she rode past me
that day her face was white and proud. She was a Jorth and I was an
Isbel. She hated herself--she hated me. But no bad girl could look
like that. She knows what's said of her all around the valley. But she
doesn't care. She'd encourage gossip."

"Thank you, Ann," replied Jean, huskily. "Please keep this--this
meetin' of mine with her all to yourself, won't you?"

"Why, Jean, of course I will."

Jean wandered away again, peculiarly grateful to Ann for reviving and
upholding something in him that seemed a wavering part of the best of
him--a chivalry that had demanded to be killed by judgment of a
righteous woman. He was conscious of an uplift, a gladdening of his
spirit. Yet the ache remained. More than that, he found himself
plunged deeper into conjecture, doubt. Had not the Ellen Jorth
incident