Curiously enough, it was not Helm but Eleanor who was embarrassed when they were face to face. Her lips were burning--the lips he had kissed so tenderly yet so passionately. What a strong, simple _man_ of a man! If she had given way to her impulse, she would have burst out crying and flung herself into those long arms of his that had seemed to enfold her against all the ills of life. She could not meet the gentle, sad look those magnetic eyes of his bent upon her. Said he: “Miss Clearwater, I’ve come to do what I know you want me to do. I’ve come to release you.” “Thank you,” she said stammeringly, without looking up. “I don’t know what possessed me. I took advantage of--of your kindness and liking. I hope you’ll forgive me.” “I knew you didn’t mean what you said,” murmured she, meaning nothing but simply trying to prevent a painful silence. “You’re mistaken there, ma’am,” said he. “I spoke from my heart. I love you very dearly. I don’t see how I’m going to get along without you. There’s only one thing in the world that’d be harder.” She was looking at him now--was looking at his rugged, kind face--the face of a man born to suffer and born to bear without crying out. Such a lonely man--one of those large, simple, lonely souls. Said she: “I meant what I said too. Just as much as you did. But--I--I--didn’t mean to hurt you.” “You haven’t hurt me, Miss Clearwater,” protested he earnestly. “You’ve done me only good--given me only happiness. I’ll always remember--last night--and it’ll make me happy. I oughtn’t to have said what I did about your letting me take advantage of your liking. It wasn’t the truth, and I knew it. You are honest and good--and what you did was from the heart.” “As nothing I ever did before,” said she. “But you know as well as I do, that the hardest thing of all would be for us to be together. We ain’t in any way suitable to each other. You’re too fine and delicate for me.” “Please don’t say that sort of thing,” cried she. “It isn’t like you--those snobbish ideas.” A puzzled expression came into his face. Then he smiled slightly. “You misunderstood,” said he. “I didn’t mean exactly that. I meant that you hadn’t been brought up right--according to my notion. So--you’d be miserable as my wife, and a burden on me. Anyhow, it always seemed to me that I wasn’t made to be a married man. The ladies never seemed to care much about me, and I guess that got me into the way of arranging to get along without them.” As he stood there, rugged and powerful, his sincere face made tragic by the look of lonely melancholy that was habitual to it in repose, she was so moved that she knew she ought not to trust herself to speak. But she did--and her voice was shaking with sobs as she said: “I know I’m not worthy of you. I’m so poor that I haven’t anything that you need. I’m only fit for a very inferior sort of man. Oh, how vain and silly I’ve been--to imagine I was worth a man’s while.”