“Mr. Loring,” she said at length slowly, as if weighing her words, “I know that you care for me; but, and it is hard to say”—she laid her hand on his arm and tried to meet his eyes—“but I don’t quite trust you.” She felt his arm stiffen and quiver, but she went on, although her voice broke: “I know that you are brave. I owe my life to that.” She paid no attention to the gesture with which he waved aside all obligation. “I respect you more than I can say for the fight that you have made against habit, only—” “Only?” echoed Stephen slowly. “Only—oh, can’t you see that if I were to marry you and all the time there were in my heart a doubt, even though the merest shadow, that neither of us could be happy?” Loring crushed between his fingers a piece of the soft ore and let the fragments trickle to the ground before he spoke. “It is more than year now, Jean. Must the shadow last forever? Is what I have done to remain forever unpardoned?” He spoke with the slowness of an advocate who knows his case is lost, yet fights to the end. “It is not that, Stephen. I could forgive almost anything that you have done. But there is one thing that you have done, that try as I would, I could never forget. Stephen, let me ask it of you. What is the most essential quality of all in a—a—friend?” “Honesty,” answered Loring, without a moment’s hesitation. “And suppose you knew that a friend had utterly fallen from honesty?” “I should then feel that the word “friend” no longer applied.” Loring was dazed. He did not know of her cousin’s story of his dishonesty in his relations with his guardian. He thought only of the promise he had made to her on their ride in Quentin and the manner in which he had broken it. “Yes,” he went on slowly, “I suppose when a man breaks his solemn word he shatters forever the mold of his character.” “I want you to understand that it is only because I cannot forget that one thing, that my trust in you is not absolute.” Loring straightened himself, and for a second turned his head away. “That,” said he, “is why I said I had lost _the_ chance.” A wave of pity swept over Jean. “And yet, Stephen,” she whispered, “I—” “Oh, Steve! Where are you?” came from out of the darkness. “We are going up now. Mr. Cameron thinks we have a fine strike there.” Stephen helped Jean to her feet. Then silently he led the way back to the shaft. CHAPTER XIX