on he tasted the sweetness of her
lips. Then pure reason, that shrew who had always ruled his days, spoke
loud, as the bitterness of his situation rolled back upon him.

"No--no!" he cried. "Judith--honey--I can't do that. Why, I'd be robbing
you of everything in the world. Your kin would turn against you. Your
farm would be lost to you, I reckon--I don't know when I'll be able to go
back and claim mine."

In the moment of strained silence that followed this speech, with a sense
of violent painful revulsion the girl pushed him back when he would
timidly have clung to her. What woman ever appreciated prudence in a
lover? It is not a lover's virtue. Her farm--her farm! He could listen to
her confession of love for him, and speculate upon the chances of her
losing her farm by it! She had one shamed, desperate instant when she
would have been glad to deny the words she had spoken. Then Creed,
reading her anger and despair by the light of his own sorrows, said
brokenly:

"You feel--you're offended at me now--but Judith, you wouldn't love me if
I had taken you at your word, and ruined all your chances in life.
I--Judith--dear--I'll make this thing right yet. I'll come back--and
you'll forgive me then."

With a sudden flaring up of strength he took quiet mastery of the
situation. He kissed her tenderly, but sadly, not such a kiss as either
could ever have imagined their first would be.

"I love you too well to let you wed a man that's fixed like I am--a man
that's made such a failure of life--a fugitive--a fellow that has nothing
to offer you, and no more standing with your people than a hound dog. I
love you better than I do myself or my comfort--or even my life."

In anguished silence Judith received the caress; dumb with misery she got
to her horse. Creed stood looking up at her for their last words, when,
with a rattle and clang, the train from the North swept in and halted.
Selim jibed and fought the bit as any sensible mountain horse feels
himself entitled to do under similar circumstances; but Judith heeded him
almost not at all.

"My Lord--who's that?" she cried, staring toward the lighted train where
the figure of a man mounted the platform.

"What is it?" queried Creed.

"Hit looked like Blatch," whispered the girl; "but I reckon it couldn't
a-been."

"Blatch!" echoed Creed, all on fire in an instant--where now was her poor
invalid whose head she had pillowed, of whom she had thought to take
care? "Blatc