He lifted her face to his, but in breathless haste little Grandmother put him from her and leaned back against the wall, with hands outstretched keeping him off. “Manuel,” she said. “I have a great deal to tell you. I thought—you did not come back. I thought you were dead.” “Yes,” said the boy. “No wonder! The Apaches got me and kept me all winter with a broken leg. What matter? I got away. I found you had come east. I found the man’s name who brought you—found where he lived. I followed. I come here an hour ago, and lie down, I think by chance, beneath the wall to rest. That chance was the finger of Heaven. You see, Pitia, it leads me to you. I take you, you are mine, you go back with me, as my wife.” The little windflower was very white as she leaned against the wall, still with outstretched pleading hands; whiter than the lily that lay at her feet. “Manuel,” she said; “listen! I was alone. Father died. There was no woman save old Emilia—” the lad uttered an oath, but she hurried on. “I could not—I could not stay. I meant to die; I thought you dead, and I—I was going up into the great snow to end it, when—a good old man came. Old, old, white as winter, but good as Heaven. He saved me, Manuel; he brought me here to his home, and it is mine too. I am his wife, Manuel.” “His wife!” The young man stared incredulous, his dark eyes full of pain and trouble. “His wife—an old man! You, my Pitia?” Suddenly his face broke into laughter. “I see!” he cried. “You punish me, you try me—good! I take it all! Go on, Pitia! more penance, I desire it, because at the last I have you—so!” Once more he sprang towards her with a passionate gesture; but the slender white arms never wavered. “I am his wife,” she repeated; “the good old man’s wife. See—the ring on my finger. They—they call me Grandmother, Manuel dear.” She tried to smile. “And you are alive!” she said. “Manuel, that is all I will think of; my friend is alive, my only friend till Grandfather came.” Alas! poor little Grandmother, poor little windflower; for now burst forth a storm beside which Rachel’s rages seemed the babble of a child. Cruel names the boy called her, in his wild passion of love and disappointment; cruel, cruel words he said; and she stood there white and quiet, looking at him with patient pleading eyes, but not trying to excuse or defend. “Ah!” he cried at last. “You are not alive at all, I believe. You have never lived, you do not know what life is.” That was the first time she heard it, poor little Grandmother. She was to hear it so many times. Now she put her hand to her heart as if something had pierced it; a spasm crossed her smooth forehead, and when it passed a line remained, a little line of pain. But she only nodded and tried to smile, and said, “Yes, sure, Manuel! yes, sure!” Then they heard Grandfather’s voice behind them, and there was the good old man standing, leaning on his stick and looking at them with wonder.