"Do you see that sun going down over the hills?" She turned her beautiful eyes full upon Harding as she spoke, with a look of ineffable tenderness and sorrow. "Well, you must let what you have said go down with that sun, and never think of it--never speak of it again." It was Harding's turn to blanch now, and the blood retreated from his swarthy cheeks until they looked almost ghastly. "Why?" and his voice came involuntarily, almost in a whisper. "Do not ask me--have pity--do not ask me." "I must ask you," he cried impetuously, "but yet I need not perhaps. You care for no one else? Then it must be that you do not, you cannot, care for me. Is that it, Jane?" "That is not it." "Not it!" he cried joyfully. "Then you _do_ care for me a little--just a little, Jane?--a little which is to grow into a great deal by and by! Oh, child, child, think how wretched I have been all these years! Think how I have waited and waited. I lived for twelve long months, Jane, alone, without a soul, without even a dog, in a tent on that knoll; and so hungry, Jane--so hungry for sympathy, for love. It comes to me at last, dear Jane, what I have longed for and begged for so long. Don't, don't--as you hope for mercy, don't take it away again!" "You are good," she said softly, "whatever they may say. It is good and noble of you. Why should I tell you lies? I do like you very much, for all," looking down with a faint blush, "we have met and known each other so little. But all the same, it cannot be." "Cannot again," he cried impatiently. "Once more, I ask you, will you tell me why not?" She looked at him half frightened, for there was something of mastery in his tone; then, standing erect, and with a positiveness as strong as his own, she answered, "Because I should disgrace you." "Because you are on the stage!" he exclaimed disdainfully. "Is that it?" "That is something," returned Jane humbly, "but perhaps not much. I am hardly important enough to be worth even that sort of reproach. And besides the people of California are too liberal to apply it. I know I am only a ballet dancer"--and the poor girl tried to smile here--"and a pretty bad one at that. But I work hard for an honest living, and no one can say I have ever disgraced myself." "Then how can you disgrace me?" "I have begged you not to ask me." "I must!" cried Harding passionately; "and I have the right to do so. Would you have me take your cool 'no' when you care for no one else and do care for me, and to go my way satisfied? I can't--I won't!" "You will be sorry," said Jane pitifully. "Let me be. Anything rather than the doubt. Give me the truth." "Well then." She turned her back now: and looked from the window with her grave, sad face, and spoke in a dull, measured way, like the swinging of a pendulum. "I am a convict's daughter. My father is in the State prison of New York at Auburn." "For what crime?"