ved me--a little--" he paused abruptly, as though
choked into silence by a merciless hand.

Elsie remained silent, with her eyes turned towards the window, her
hands in her lap, and at last he went on:

"If your father is a true prophet, I shall be ordered back to my
regiment. That will hurt me, but it won't ruin me exactly. It would be a
shameful thing if the department sacrificed me to expediency; but
politicians are wonderful people! If you were not so much an artist and
Andrew Brisbane's daughter, I would ask you to come to me and help me do
my work, but I can't quite do that--yet; I can only say you are more to
me now than any other soul in the world. I do this because I can't keep
from it," he repeated, in poor ending.

"I've heard that the best way to make a woman love a man is to persecute
the man," she replied, smiling a little, though her eyes were wet.
"When you were apparently triumphant I hated you--now--" she hesitated
and a sudden timidity shook her.

He sprang up. "Can you carry out the figure? I dare you to finish the
sentence. Do you care for me a little?" His face, suddenly illuminated,
moved her powerfully.

"I'm afraid I do--wait, please!" She stopped him with a gesture. "You
mustn't think I mean more than I do. My mind is all in a whirl now; it
isn't fair to hurry me; I must take time to consider. Your being poor
and an Indian agent wouldn't make any difference to me if I--But I must
be sure. I respect you--I admire you very much--and last night when I
said good-bye I felt a sharp pain here." She put her hand to her throat.
"But I must be sure. There are so many things against it," she ended,
covering her eyes with her hand in piteous perplexity.

His eyes were alight, his voice eager. "It would be such a glorious
thing if you could join me in my work."

The mention of his work stung her. "Oh no! It is impossible. I should
die here! I have no sense of duty towards these poor vagabonds. I'm
sorry for them--but to live here--no, no! You must not ask it. You must
go your way and I will go mine. You are only torturing me needlessly."

"Forgive me," he pleaded. "I did not mean to do so."

She continued, wildly: "Can't you see how crazy, how impossible, it is?
I admire you--I believe in your work--it is magnificent; but I can't
live your life. My friends, my art, mean too much to me."

There was a tremulous, passionate pleading which failed of finality: it
perplexed her lover; it did not convi