“Yes,” said Dan McMasters; “that is why I did come. I knew that sometime you’d want to tell me that. I knew that before I went away from you, you’d want to be Lockhart enough to admit to a McMasters that no McMasters ever born could be the dishonorable man you thought I was. You sent me out of your camp with a brand on me that I never would have taken if I hadn’t loved you the first minute I saw you—and if I hadn’t known that some day you’d want to tell me you were wrong.” Anastasie Lockhart spread out her hands. “Haven’t I? I have repented it every night and every day since then. But of what use? You are not one who can forgive. You only want to shame and humiliate me, you can’t forgive. You wouldn’t let me, wouldn’t believe me, wouldn’t forgive me. You say you can’t change.” “Are you so sure?” His voice spoke as though in answer to some question of his own. “Which of us can be sure of anything? Who knows about these things?” He pulled himself together, trying not to let his emotions go, to hold to safe things. “Do you think my father or yours would let us be anything but neighbors?” he began. “Did not those two gentlemen fight all their lives together, for their principles, for their state? They were friends, even after the war, even in the war. If you had a brother, do you suppose my sister could make any payment to him for things like this? Those men were Texans.” “You did nothing for me, then,” said Anastasie Lockhart, trying to be furious. “You did not think of me; you thought of Texas. You thought of everything but me!” “Anastasie,” said he quietly, “that isn’t right. I have thought of nothing else but you since I met you. Love—why, you can’t measure what love will do!” “Love, sir?” But now his words rushed. “Neighbor and neighbor—yes. Gonzales and Caldwell—yes. Lockhart and McMasters—yes. The big trail opening up, the whole country opening up—yes. The Indians giving way before the white men—yes. A new day coming into all this country—why yes! I can see all those things, and so can you. But why? What actuated it all? It seems to me it must have been love—love of man and woman. I know it was my love for you that drove me. There are things we can’t ever measure. I couldn’t explain what I mean—no. And, of course I know,” he added, “I’d have no right to if I could.” Anastasie Lockhart stood looking at him, wide-eyed. Surely—she knew it now with a sudden gasp of apprehension—her instinct had been right. She had loved in him something other than the cold dominancy of his nature. Now she knew that he was not the coldest man in all the world, but a man of tempestuous heats, with storm and stress about him. For the first time she saw his fingers tremble as he half reached out a hand, withdrew it. Neither could he now speak, except with effort. It seemed that, after all, they were come to the parting of the roads.