The interview had been short and not very satisfactory. The cowman, remembering with considerable pain the conversation with his daughter, told his employe frankly that he had better give up any such ideas as evidently possessed him. Stelton, who had with some right formerly felt he might count on the favorable attitude of his chief, was astounded, and took the venom of the curt refusal to heart. Retiring without betraying his emotion, he had resolved to speak to the girl herself, and that same afternoon asked permission to accompany her on her daily ride across the prairies, a thing not unusual with him. Juliet, although she wished to be alone, consented, and at four o'clock they set out, unobserved by Bissell. It was not until they had turned their horses homeward that Stelton spoke, almost tongue-tied by the emotions that rent him, alternate waves of fear and hope. "Miss Julie," he began, "I allow I've known you a long while." "Yes, Mike, you have." "An' I allow that I would be plumb miserable if you ever went away from here again." "Thank you, Mike; I should miss you, too," replied the girl civilly, growing uneasy at the unusual trend of the man's speech, halting and indefinite though it was. "Miss Julie, I ain't no hand at fine talk, but I want to ask yuh if you will marry me? I've thought about it a lot, an' though I ain't noways good enough fer yuh, I'd try to make yuh happy." Juliet, taken aback by the suddenness of this declaration, particularly after her talk with her father, remained silent. "Take yore time, Miss Julie," pleaded Stelton, riding closer to her. "I ain't in no hurry." "I can't tell you how much I appreciate what you've said, Mike," she replied slowly. "I've always liked you and I always will, but I don't love you, and I would sooner tell you now than keep you in suspense. I can't marry you." Stelton bit his lip and his dark face grew even blacker with rage at the futility of his position. With anyone other than Juliet Bissell, perhaps, he realized that insistent pressure of his suit might have favorable results. But this cool, calm girl offered no opportunity for argument or hope. "Mebbe if yuh waited a bit, yuh might think different about it," he ventured nevertheless. She shook her head. "No, Mike, I wouldn't, I am sure. If you care for me you will never mention this again. And for my part, I shall always remember what you have said to me to-day. It is a sweet thing for a girl to know that a man loves her." Such gracious refusals are effective with most men, both because they succeed in closing a tender subject and at the same time leave an unwounded pride. But Stelton was not the ordinary type of lover. Repressed emotions in somber minds feed and grow fat upon their own substance, and it was inconceivable that Stelton's genuine though distorted love, an abnormal product of ten long years, should be dismissed thus with a few words.