She laughed. "It is a common experience enough. Pray that you may never know it. I began as a little child, loving and trusting every one, and giving my full free heart and confidence to every one who offered his best to me. All I can say is, that I am thankful for you that you have escaped the suffering such blind trust leads to." She laughed again, bitterly, and threw her arms out. "I suppose I shall go on trusting people forever. It's in my nature, and I can't help it." "I hope you will feel you can trust me," said he, troubled at this passion so much beyond his experience. "I would do anything for you." "Do! do!" she cried with contempt. "Yes. Any number of people will _do_ anything for me. I want some one to _be_ for me!" "I'm so sorry!" he said simply, but with great feeling. "Don't pity me, don't believe in me!" she cried suddenly in a passion. "I am not worth it. I am cruel and hard and cold, and I'll never care for anybody in any way. My nature has been hardened. I _can't_ be good. I can't care for people. I _can't_ think of giving way to it. It frightens me." She burst into sudden tears and sobbed convulsively. In a moment she became calm. Then she took her hands from her eyes and smiled. In the distress of his sympathy Bennington thought he had never seen anything more beautiful than this breaking forth of the light. "You must think I am a very peculiar young person," she said, "but I told you I was a mystery. I am a little tired to-day, that's all." The conversation took a lighter tone and ran on the subject of the new horse. She was much interested, inquiring of his colour, his size, his gaits, whether he had been tried. "I'll tell you what we will do," she suggested; "we'll go on an expedition some day. I have a pony too. We will fill up our saddlebags and cook our own dinner. I know a nice little place over toward Blue Lead." "I've one suggestion to add," put in Bennington, "and that is, that we go to-morrow." She looked a trifle doubtful. "I don't know. Aren't we seeing a good deal of each other?" "Oh, if it is going to bore you, by all means put it off!" cried Bennington in genuine alarm. She laughed contentedly over his way of looking at it. "I'm not tired then, so please you; and when I am, I'll let you know. To-morrow it is." "Shall I come after you? What time shall I start?" "No, I'd rather meet you somewhere. Let's see. You watch for me, and I'll ride by in the lower gulch about nine o'clock." "Very well. By the way, the band's going to practise in town to-night. Don't you want to go?" "I'd like to, but I promised Jim I'd go with him." "Jim?" "Jim Fay." Bennington felt this as a discordant note. "Do you know him very well?" he asked jealously. "He's my best friend. I like him very much. He is a fine fellow. You must meet him." "I've met him," said Bennington shortly.