Reluctantly he found himself succumbing to the witchery of her plaintive tone and her quivering lips. Then he rallied and said relentlessly. "Something worse?" "Is there anything worse than stealing?" she asked artlessly. "His acquaintance with me is not exactly of a personal nature. He admits but one of my shortcomings--that he never knows where to find me--literally. He'd think so more than ever if he could see me now." "Does he love you?" She stopped playing, rose from the piano bench and with an odd little laugh, crossed the room to the window seat. He followed. "Hebby love me? Well, no! There have been times when I think he positively hated me. But I wish he hadn't come. He brings up--unpleasant memories." "Then let's talk of something pleasant--very pleasant. About Marta, Jo's Marta. I met them together yesterday. I had my answer to the question I asked you." "They are very happy," she said wistfully. "I am so glad." "Pen, why did you make me think, that first day I met you, that it was you Jo met and loved in Chicago?" "Did I make you think so? You assumed I was the one and I--well, I wouldn't have presumed to dispute the assertion of anyone in a sheriff line. It's safer not." "You asked me not to be hard on little Marta. Who could be? Not even the man you seem to think me to be. I'll do all in my power to help them to build a little home in the hills. And she does love him." "Yes," she said softly. "She does." He looked at her with a little ache in his throat. The moonlight was full on her partly averted face; her profile, clear-cut, delicate, was like a medallion. "Pen--could you love me?" The words seemed wrung from him in spite of an apparent determination not to utter them. She turned and looked straight into his eyes. "That isn't what you should ask me, unless, you--" "I do," he said passionately. "You didn't--want to." "No; frankly, I didn't want to; but I did--I do." "Why?" she asked curiously, watching the fine little lines about his eyes deepen. "I've been fighting it since I met you--because--" "Because I am a thief," she finished unconcernedly. "Do you remember that night when we were here alone--you started to tell me you loved me, didn't you?" "Yes," he admitted slowly. "Then you _remembered_ what I was, and your love wasn't big enough to let you finish." "That wasn't the reason I hesitated," he said quickly, "then or--other times. The reason I didn't yield to my desire was because I knew it wouldn't be fair to Jo. Remember, I thought until Marta came that you were _his_." She looked her discomfiture. "I forgot that," she said in a low sympathetic tone. "No;" he resumed meditatively. "You don't know what a man's love is." "A man's love," she replied, a slight catch in her voice, "is infinitesimal compared to a woman's." "Let me show you, Pen. You shall love me! We'll go far away from here--"