not
receive the most ordinary attention from you. He would not, I fear,
like to know that you were at our house."

Did it cost her anything to say this? Apparently not, though her voice
and manner diminished its sting. A moment's pause, and Barton's voice,
cold and steady, answered back:

"I know what your father's feelings towards me are," and then, with
warmth, "but I am sure that he would think less of me, if possible,
were I to permit any woman to find her way, at this hour, out of this
wilderness."

It was not much to say, but it was well said, and he turned his face
towards her as he said it, lit up with a clear expression of man's
loyalty to woman--not unpleasant to the young girl. Why could not
he leave it there and to the future? They walked on, and the shadows
deepened.

"Miss Markham, I, too, must say a thing to you: from my boyhood to
this hour, deeply, passionately, with my whole heart and soul, have I
loved you."

There was no mistaking; the intensity of his voice made his words
thrill. She recoiled from them as if stunned, and turned her face,
pale now, and marked, fully towards him.

"What! What did you say?"

"I love you!" with a deep, full voice.

"How dare you utter such words to me?"

Her eyes flashed and nostrils dilated.

"Because they are true; because I am a man and you are a woman,"
steadily and proudly.

"A man! you a man! Is it manly to waylay me in this lonely place,
and force yourself upon me, and insult me with this? You compel me
to--to--"

"Scorn and despise you!" supplied the youth, in a bitter tone.

"Take the words, then, if you choose them."

She was simply grand in her style, till this last expression, which
had the angry snap of an enraged woman. Some high natures might have
answered back her scorn; a lower one might have complained; and still
another would have left her in the woods. Barton said nothing,
but, with a cold, stony face, walked on by her side. If, in his
desperation, he wanted this killing thrust, which must ever rankle and
never heal, to enable him to overcome and subdue his great passion, he
had got it. That little hand, that emphasized her words with a gesture
of superb disdain, would never have to repeat the blow. It raised
about her a barrier that he was never after to approach.

He was not a man to complain. He would have told her why he said these
words; he could not now. Some men are like wolves in traps, and die
without a moan. Barton cou