holly to this earnest and passionate
side of myself.

"Sally, I do love you. I don't know how you took my actions. Anyway, now
I'll make them plain. I was beside myself with love and jealousy. Will
you marry me?"

She did not answer. But the old willful Sally was not in evidence.
Watching her face I gave her a slow and gentle pull, one she could
easily resist if she cared to, and she slipped from her saddle into my
arms.

Then there was one wildly sweet moment in which I had the blissful
certainty that she kissed me of her own accord. She was abashed, yet
yielding; she let herself go, yet seemed not utterly unstrung. Perhaps
I was rough, held her too hard, for she cried out a little.

"Russ! Let me go. Help me--back."

I righted her in the saddle, although not entirely releasing her.

"But, Sally, you haven't told me anything," I remonstrated tenderly. "Do
you love me?"

"I think so," she whispered.

"Sally, will you marry me?"

She disengaged herself then, sat erect and faced away from me, with her
breast heaving.

"No, Russ," she presently said, once more calm.

"But Sally--if you love me--" I burst out, and then stopped, stilled by
something in her face.

"I can't help--loving you, Russ," she said. "But to promise to marry
you, that's different. Why, Russ, I know nothing about you, not even
your last name. You're not a--a steady fellow. You drink, gamble, fight.
You'll kill somebody yet. Then I'll _not_ love you. Besides, I've always
felt you're not just what you seemed. I can't trust you. There's
something wrong about you."

I knew my face darkened, and perhaps hope and happiness died in it.
Swiftly she placed a kind hand on my shoulder.

"Now, I've hurt you. Oh, I'm sorry. Your asking me makes such a
difference. _They_ are not in earnest. But, Russ, I had to tell you
why I couldn't be engaged to you."

"I'm not good enough for you. I'd no right to ask you to marry me," I
replied abjectly.

"Russ, don't think me proud," she faltered. "I wouldn't care who you
were if I could only--only respect you. Some things about you are
splendid, you're such a man, that's why I cared. But you gamble. You
drink--and I _hate_ that. You're dangerous they say, and I'd be, I _am_
in constant dread you'll kill somebody. Remember, Russ, I'm no Texan."

This regret of Sally's, this faltering distress at giving me pain, was
such sweet assurance that she did love me, better than she knew, that I
was divided between