on't you see that I wanted to be sure of your love so that I
might be able to portray a real love scene in my story?"

He did not reply instantly, but folded his arms over his chest and
stood looking at her. In his expression was much reproach and not a
little disappointment. The hopes that had filled his dreams had been
ruined by her frivolous words; he saw her at this moment a woman who
had trifled with him, who had led him cleverly on to a declaration of
love that she might in the end sacrifice him to her art. But in this
moment, when he might have been excused for exhibiting anger; for
heaping upon her the bitter reproaches of an outraged confidence, he
was supremely calm. The color fled from his face, leaving it slightly
pale, and his eyes swam with a deep feeling that told of the struggle
that he was making.

"I didn't think you'd do it, ma'am," he said finally, a little
hoarsely. "But I reckon you know your own business best." He smiled
slightly. "I don't think there's any use of you an' me meetin'
again--I don't want to be goin' on, bein' a dummy man that you c'n
watch. But I'm glad to have amused you some an' I have enjoyed myself,
talkin' to you. But I reckon you've done what you wanted to do, an' so
I'll be gettin' along."

He smiled grimly and with an effort turned and walked around the corner
of the rock, intending to descend the hill and mount his pony. But as
he passed around to the side of the rock he heard her voice:

"Wait, please," she said in a scarcely audible voice.

He halted, looking gravely at her from the opposite side of the rock.

"You wantin' to get somethin' more for your story?" he asked.

She turned and looked over her shoulder at him, her eyes luminous with
a tell-tale expression, her face crimson. "Why," she said smiling at
him, "do you really think that I could be so mean?"

He was around the rock again in half a dozen steps and standing above
her, his eyes alight, his lips parted slightly with surprise and
eagerness.

"Do you mean that you wantin' to make sure that I loved you wasn't all
for the sake of the story?" he demanded rapidly.

Her eyes drooped away from his. "Didn't you tell me that a writer
should be in love in order to be able to write of it?" she asked, her
face averted.

"Yes." He was trembling a little and leaning toward her. In this
position he caught her low reply.

"I think my love story will be real," she returned. "I have
learned----"