“You talk--you look like Uncle Jim when he spoke of the Mormons,” she said. “Then I used to be afraid of him. He was so different. John, you must not do anything about me. Let me be. It's too late. He--and his men--they would hang you. And I couldn't bear that. I've enough to bear without losing my friend. Say you won't watch and wait--for--for him.” Shefford had to promise her. Like an Indian she gave expression to primitive feeling, for it certainly never occurred to her that, whatever Shefford might do, he was not the kind of man to wait in hiding for an enemy. Fay had faltered through her last speech and was now weak and nervous and frightened. Shefford took her back to the cabin. “Fay, don't be distressed,” he said. “I won't do anything right away. You can trust me. I won't be rash. I'll consult you before I make a move. I haven't any idea what I could do, anyway.... You must bear up. Why, it looks as if you're sorry I found you.” “Oh! I'm glad!” she whispered. “Then if you're glad you mustn't break down this way again. Suppose some of the women happened to run into us.” “I won't again. It's only you--you surprised me so. I used to think how I'd like you to know--I wasn't really dead. But now--it's different. It hurts me here. Yet I'm glad--if my being alive makes you--a little happier.” Shefford felt that he had to go then. He could not trust himself any further. “Good night, Fay,” he said. “Good night, John,” she whispered. “I promise--to be good to-morrow.” She was crying softly when he left her. Twice he turned to see the dim, white, slender form against the gloom of the cabin. Then he went on under the pinyons, blindly down the path, with his heart as heavy as lead. That night as he rolled in his blanket and stretched wearily he felt that he would never be able to sleep. The wind in the cedars made him shiver. The great stars seemed relentless, passionless, white eyes, mocking his little destiny and his pain. The huge shadow of the mountain resembled the shadow of the insurmountable barrier between Fay and him. . . . . . . . . . . . Her pitiful, childish promise to be good was in his mind when he went to her home on the next night. He wondered how she would be, and he realized a desperate need of self-control. But that night Fay Larkin was a different girl. In the dark, before she spoke, he felt a difference that afforded him surprise and relief. He greeted her as usual. And then it seemed, though not at all clearly, that he was listening to a girl, strangely and unconsciously glad to see him, who spoke with deeper note in her voice, who talked where always she had listened, whose sadness was there under an eagerness, a subdued gaiety as new to her, as sweet as it was bewildering. And he responded with emotion, so that the hour passed swiftly, and he found himself back in camp, in a kind of dream, unable to remember much of what she had said, sure only of this strange sweetness suddenly come to her.