“Why do you say that?” he asked. She turned away her face and made no reply. The woman holding the babe arose and sauntered to another part of the tent. “Why do you say that for you happiness is a thing of the past?” Douglas pursued. “You are young, Amy—life is all before you——” “Listen!” she interrupted. “I say there is no further happiness for me, because my heart is broken—is dead within me.” For some seconds both were silent, neither looking at the other. At last he inquired: “Where will you go when you leave here?” “I don’t know—yet.” There was a world of meaning in the last word. And as she uttered it, she turned her hollow eyes full upon her questioner. Ross saw the soul-hunger reflected in her face—and he started. Their eyes met. She dropped her white lids, and the hot blood mantled her pale cheeks. An embarrassing silence fell upon them. He was the first to speak. “Amy,” he murmured softly, “I want to help you—I want to be kind to you——” Passionately she caught his hand in both of hers, and whispered—all her soul in her voice and manner: “Ross—Ross! Listen to me! Say that you’ll take me away from here—to a place where George Hilliard can never find us—where we can begin life over and——” The look in his eyes repelled her advances; and breaking off in the middle of the sentence, she trembled and was silent. Gently but firmly withdrawing his hand from her clinging clasp, he said—almost sternly: “Amy, what you have in mind can never be. I loved Amy Larkin tenderly and truly. Amy Hilliard I have no _right_ to love!” For a moment she stared at him, as though she did not comprehend. Then, with a groan, she fell back upon the bed and, hiding her face, burst into tears. Ross was greatly moved. He pitied her sincerely; yet he felt that he had done right in telling her the truth. Now he bent over her and whispered soothingly: “Do not weep. The past is forever past. For months, I was a wounded prisoner among the savages. As soon as I could, I made my escape and went back to Franklinton. But you were gone. No one knew of your whereabouts—you had left no trail behind you. I went to your old home in Pennsylvania. I was disappointed. At last I have found you. But you are the wife of another. Of course you were forced into the hateful marriage——” She had been convulsively sobbing. Suddenly she snatched her hands from her face and, springing erect, cried excitedly: “Ross Douglas, I’ve been deceiving you. I hoped that you still loved me—that I could win you back—that I still might be happy with you. That hope is dead. I’ll deceive you with my silence, no longer. I’ll tell you the truth—all—everything!” For one fleeting second, she paused and hungrily searched his face, still hoping to detect there some faint glimmer of the passion he had borne her. His features were pale, but calm—impassive; his manner was keenly expectant. Stifling a sob, she dashed the hot tears from her eyes and proceeded hurriedly: