"Tell me, Stephen," she burst out, "that you forgive me my unkind words, and that you will try to forget them. But whether you succeed in that or not, Stephen," she hastily added, her voice breaking, "tell me that you will continue to be friendly. We want you, all of us--I want you! I have enjoyed our rides together so much! They have meant much to me, and I hope they have been enjoyable to you. So let us go on, on this accepted basis, and be friends. Tell me you will, Stephen!" He was silent a long time. Then he told her of his hastily made plans. He was going away from town, of course. He could not remain, under the circumstances. Yet where he was going he didn't know. He would go farther West, probably--go somewhere and try to make good--try to do something worth while, to be something worth while. Saying which, he then thanked her fervently for everything--for her society, for her frank criticism, for having awakened him to an understanding of himself. Helen stood speechless. She had not anticipated this, that he would go away, that he would leave her. A deep-surging bitterness gripped her, and for a moment she almost relented. But only for a moment. The spell passed, and she looked at him with frank, level eyes. "I am sorry to hear that, Stephen," she declared, quietly. "We want you with us--all of us. But--but tell me," she concluded, finding the words coming with difficulty--"tell me that you feel no--no antagonism toward me, Stephen, because I can't--can't love you as you want me to love you, and that you understand that--that in deciding as I have I--I only wanted to be true--true to both of us!" For answer he seized both her hands in his. He gazed straight down into her eyes. "I love you, Helen," he murmured, and then slowly released her fingers. He left her so quietly that she hardly knew that he was gone. A step on the trail aroused her, and, lifting her eyes, she saw him striding away with shoulders back and head erect, as if awakened to a new manhood. And watching him go, as she felt, for the last time, she could no more control a sob than he at the moment could turn back. For a while she followed him with wistful eyes, then, finding sudden need for consolation, she hurried off the porch and across to the corral. Pat was there to receive her, and she flung her arms around his neck and gave way to sudden tears. "Pat," she sobbed, "I--perhaps I do love him! Perhaps I have done wrong! I--I--" She interrupted herself. "What shall I do, Pat?" she burst out, bitterly. "Oh, what shall I do?" Pat could not advise her. But he remained very still, supporting her weight with dumb patience, until she turned away, going slowly back into the house. Then he pressed close into his corner and sounded a shrill, protracted nicker. That was all.