d up to her and
me that he oughtn't to do what he done. He said in his letters he
oughtn't to raise his eyes to her--he knowed he ought to of come around
to the front door and not to the back door; and he said that very
thing. But he said, like a man will, that he couldn't help it.

"She didn't never answer his letters, so far as I know. I don't know as
she ever got any word to him at all. So far as I know, they never did
talk much, only that one time when I heard 'em. But, as to something
going on--why, yes, it's been going on for quite a little while. And
I've knew it; I've knew I ought to go and tell you. And all the time I
couldn't, because I loved her and she ast me not to tell."

"Did she ever tell you anything? Do you think she cared anyway for him?
You see," he goes on, "I never seen him to know him. I don't know who he
is. I didn't hardly know he was alive on earth. Gawd forgive me! I ought
to of known. I told her once not to talk to that hired man; but if I'd
thought anything of this I'd maybe of killed him then."

"Yes; and I ought to of told you, Colonel," says I. "It was only the way
things happened and because she ast me not to."

"She had that secret from her father!" says he, slow. "Who can tell
what's in a woman's heart?"

"That's it," says I; "now you got it. She was a woman--she told me so."

"What more did she say, Curly?"

"Once she come to me crying, and she says, 'Curly, I love him!'--she
meant that man next door. And I know for shore now he wasn't fit to wipe
her feet on."

Old Man Wright he set down then, quiet like. I couldn't help him none, I
had to set and see him take it. It was awful.

"She said that--she loved him? How long ago?"

"A few weeks, maybe," says I. "I never could get the nerve to tell you
then. I hoped she'd get to see how foolish it was for her to care for a
cheap gardener--I thought she'd be too proud for that. And then I
allowed she'd, like enough, marry Tom Kimberly, and that'd change her
and it'd all come out all right. All the time I was hoping and trying to
save both her and you. I been nigh about crazy, Colonel. And all the
time, of course, I was only a damn fool cowpuncher, without any brains."

"She's gone!" says he, after a time.

"Yes," says I; "near as I can figure, she's thought about it all night
and concluded it'd be best for her not to marry Tom, feeling like she
did about this other man. She's shook us, Colonel. But, believe me, she
wasn't never