But the feeling was there in her eyes for Shefford to read. Had he too great an emotion--did he read too much--did he add from his soul? For him the wild, starry, haunted eyes mirrored all that he had seen and felt under Nonnezoshe. And for herself they shone eloquently of courage and love. “I need to talk--and I don't know how,” she said. He was silent, but he took her hands and drew her closer. “Why are you so--so different?” she asked, bravely. “Different?” he echoed. “Yes. You are kind--you speak the same to me as you used to. But since we started you've been different, somehow.” “Fay, think how hard and dangerous the trip's been! I've been worried--and sick with dread--with--Oh, you can't imagine the strain I'm under! How could I be my old self?” “It isn't worry I mean.” He was too miserable to try to find out what she did mean; besides, he believed, if he let himself think about it, he would know what troubled her. “I--I am almost happy,” she said, softly. “Fay!... Aren't you at all afraid?” “No. You'll take care of me.... Do--do you love me--like you did before?” “Why, child! Of course--I love you,” he replied, brokenly, and he drew her closer. He had never embraced her, never kissed her. But there was a whiteness about her then--a wraith--a something from her soul, and he could only gaze at her. “I love you,” she whispered. “I thought I knew it that--that night. But I'm only finding it out now.... And somehow I had to tell you here.” “Fay, I haven't said much to you,” he said, hurriedly, huskily. “I haven't had a chance. I love you. I--I ask you--will you be my wife?” “Of course,” she said, simply, but the white, moon-blanched face colored with a dark and leaping blush. “We'll be married as soon as we get out of the desert,” he went on. “And we'll forget--all--all that's happened. You're so young. You'll forget.” “I'd forgotten already, till this difference came in you. And pretty soon--when I can say something more to you--I'll forget all except Surprise Valley--and my evenings in the starlight with you.” “Say it then--quick!” She was leaning against him, holding his hands in her strong clasp, soulful, tender, almost passionate. “You couldn't help it.... I'm to blame.... I remember what I said.” “What?” he queried in amaze. “'YOU CAN KILL HIM!'... I said that. I made you kill him.” “Kill--whom?” cried Shefford. “Waggoner. I'm to blame.... That must be what's made you different. And, oh, I've wanted you to know it's all my fault.... But I wouldn't be sorry if you weren't.... I'm glad he's dead.” “YOU--THINK--I--” Shefford's gasping whisper failed in the shock of the revelation that Fay believed he had killed Waggoner. Then with the inference came the staggering truth--her guiltlessness; and a paralyzing joy held him stricken.