Jeff turned. Her face, more beautiful than he had ever seen it, alive and eloquent with every thought that her woman's speech but half expressed, was very near his--so near, that under her honest eyes the wretched scales fell from his own, his self-wrought shackles crumbled away, and he dropped upon his knees at her feet as she sank into the chair he had quitted. Both his hands were grasped in her own. “YOU went away, and I STAYED,” she said reflectively. “I had no home, Miss Mayfield.” “Nor had I. I had to buy this,” she said, with a delicious simplicity; “and bring a family here too,” she added, “in case YOU”--she stopped, with a slight color. “Forgive me,” said Jeff, burying his face in her hands. “Jeff.” “Jessie.” “Don't you think you were a LITTLE--just a little--mean?” “Yes.” Miss Mayfield uttered a faint sigh. He looked into her anxious cheeks and eyes, his arm stole round her; their lips met for the first time in one long lingering kiss. Then, I fear, for the second time. “Jeff,” said Miss Mayfield, suddenly becoming practical and sweetly possessory, “you must have your hands bound up in cotton.” “Yes,” said Jeff cheerfully. “And you must go instantly to bed.” Jeff stared. “Because my sister will think it very late for me to be sitting up with a gentleman.” The idea that Miss Mayfield was responsible to anybody was something new to Jeff. But he said hastily, “I must stay and wait for Bill. He risked his life for me.” “Oh, yes! You must tell me all about it. I may wait for THAT!” Jeff possessed himself of the chair; in some way he also possessed himself of Miss Mayfield without entirely dispossessing her. Then he told his story. He hesitated over the episode of the blacksmith. “I'm afraid I killed him, Jessie.” Miss Mayfield betrayed little concern at this possible extreme measure with a dangerous neighbor. “He cut your head, Jeff,” she said, passing her little hand through his curls. “No,” said Jeff hastily, “that must have been done BEFORE.” “Well,” said Miss Mayfield conclusively, “he would if he'd dared. And you brought off that wretched money in spite of him. Poor dear Jeff.” “Yes,” said Jeff, kissing her. “Where is it?” asked Jessie, looking round the room. “Oh, just out there!” “Out where?” “On my horse, you know, outside the door,” continued Jeff, a little uneasily, as he rose. “I'll go and--” “You careless boy,” said Miss Mayfield, jumping up, “I'll go with you.” They passed out on the porch together, holding each other's hands, like children. The forgotten Rabbit was not there. Miss Mayfield called a vaquero. “Ah, yes!--the caballero's horse. Of a certainty the other caballero had taken it!” “The other caballero!” gasped Jeff. “Si, senor. The one who arrived with you, or a moment, the very next moment, after you. 'Your friend,' he said.” Jeff staggered against the porch, and cast one despairing reproachful look at Miss Mayfield.