lenient.

I have failed so completely that I don't even dare ask you if
you care the least bit for me. It's presumptuous to suggest it--
it seems like presuming because you have been kind. But even if
such a miracle could be, I have nothing to offer you. I don't
mean to quit but it may be years before I get again the chance
that I had down here.

I love you, Helen, truly, completely: I am sure there will never
be any one else for me. If only for this reason won't you write
to me sometimes, for your letters will mean so much in the days
that are ahead of me.

When he had finished, Bruce gave Jim the letter and paid him off with
the check that took the last of his balance in the bank.

From the doorway of the shack he watched the Swede climb the hill,
following him with his eyes until he had rounded the last point before
the zig-zag trail disappeared into the timber on the ridge. A pall of
awful loneliness seemed to settle over the canyon as the figure passed
from sight and as Bruce turned inside he wondered which was going to be
the worst--the days or nights. His footsteps sounded hollow when he
walked across the still room. He stopped in the centre and looked at the
ashes overflowing the hearth of the greasy range, at the unwashed
frying-pan on the dirty floor, at the remains of Jim's lunch that
littered the shabby oilcloth on the table. A black wave of despair
swept over him. This was for him instead of cleanliness, comfort,
brightness, friendly people--and Helen Dunbar. This squalor, this bare
loneliness, was the harsh penalty of failure. He put his hand to his
throat and rubbed it for it ached with the sudden contraction of the
muscles, but he made no sound.

* * * * *

One of the pictures with which Bruce tortured himself was Helen's
disappointment when she should read his letter. He imagined the
animation fading from her face, the tears rising slowly to her eyes. Her
letters had shown how much she was counting on what he had led her to
expect, for she had written him of her plans; so the collapse of her
air-castles could not be other than a blow.

And he was right. The blunt news _was_ a blow. In one swift picture
Helen saw herself trudging drearily along the dull, narrow road of
genteel poverty to the end of her days, sacrificing every taste, and
impulse, and instinct to the necessity of living, for more and more as
she thoug