"But you were always mine. And when I saw you this afternoon, there was no one else. And no one else can have you. You don't love any one but me. How could you? She can't have you. I want you. And you're mine. Your hands--and eyes--and face--this cheek--You--you--I can't--I don't know what I'm saying. I can't go back! He'll--he put this ring on me today. I let him. I was glad--somehow. Glad!" She broke away from him and burst into a fit of weeping. He knew the properties of her tears, and he had no hope of any gain but what could come to him by way of her renewed serenity; he made shift to be content with that, and though the sound of her crying hurt him violently, he smiled at her insistence on possessing him. She had married another man, but she would not resign her rights to the one she had deserted, though he, poor soul, must claim none. It was one of the inconsistencies he loved in her, and he was still smiling when she raised her head from the arm of the chair where she had laid it. "I'm sorry, Zebedee. I'm better now. I'm--all right." "Wipe your eyes, Best of all. We're going to have some tea. Can you look like some one with a--with a nervous breakdown?" "Quite easily. Isn't that just what I have had?" Mary was defter than Eliza and apparently less curious, and while she came and went they talked, like the outfitter and his friend, about the crops; but when she had gone Zebedee moved the table to the side of Helen's chair, so that, as long ago, no part of her should be concealed. "Yes," he said, looking down, "but I like you better in your grey frocks." "Do you? Do you? I'm glad," she said, but she did not tell him why. Her eyes were shining, and he found her no less beautiful for their reddened rims. "You are the most wonderful person in the world," she said. "It was unkind of me to come, wasn't it?" "No, dear. Nothing is unkind when you do it." "But it was, Zebedee. Because I'm going back, after all." "I knew you would." "Did you? I must, you know." "Yes," he said, "I know. Helen, that girl--Daniel's in love with her." "Oh, poor Miriam! Another renegade! But I'm not jealous any more, so don't explain." "But I want to tell you about her. He pursues and she wearies of him. I'm afraid he's a dreadful bore." "But that's no reason why you should take her arm." "Did I take it? I like her. I wish she would marry Daniel, but he is instructive in his love-making. He has no perceptions. I'm doing my best for him, but he won't take my advice. Yes, I like her, but I shall never love any one but you." "Oh, no, you couldn't really. But see what I have had to do!" Her eyes were tired with crying. "And have to do," she added in a lower tone. "It makes one think anything might happen. One loses faith. But now, here with you, I could laugh at having doubted. Yes, I can laugh at that, and more. That's the best of crying. It makes one laugh afterwards and see clearly. I can be amused at my struggles now and see how small they were."