en had he regretted it he would have
gone on, for opposed to caution and intelligence was his driving mystic
force.

Then he told her the truth about his boyhood, his ambition to be
an artist, his renunciation to his father's hope, his career as a
clergyman, his failure in religion, and the disgrace that had made him a
wanderer.

"Oh--I'm sorry!" she said. The faint starlight shone on her face, in her
eyes, and if he ever saw beauty and soul he saw them then. She seemed
deeply moved. She had forgotten herself. She betrayed girlhood then--all
the quick sympathy, the wonder, the sweetness of a heart innocent and
untutored. She looked at him with great, starry, questioning eyes, as if
they had just become aware of his presence, as if a man had been strange
to her.

"Thank you. It's good of you to be sorry," he said. "My instinct guided
me right. Perhaps you'll be my friend."

"I will be--if I can," she said.

"But CAN you be?"

"I don't know. I never had a friend. I... But, sir, I mustn't talk of
myself.... Oh, I'm afraid I can't help you."

How strange the pathos of her voice! Almost he believed she was in need
of help or sympathy or love. But he could not wholly trust a judgment
formed from observation of a class different from hers.

"Maybe you CAN help me. Let's see," he said. "I don't seek to make you
talk of yourself. But--you're a human being--a girl--almost a woman.
You're not dumb. But even a nun can talk."

"A nun? What is that?"

"Well--a nun is a sister of mercy--a woman consecrated to God--who has
renounced the world. In some ways you Mormon women here resemble nuns.
It is sacrifice that nails you in this lonely valley.... You see--how
I talk! One word, one thought brings another, and I speak what perhaps
should be unsaid. And it's hard, because I feel I could unburden myself
to you."

"Tell me what you want," she said.

Shefford hesitated, and became aware of the rapid pound of his heart.
More than anything he wanted to be fair to this girl. He saw that she
was warming to his influence. Her shadowy eyes were fixed upon him. The
starlight, growing brighter, shone on her golden hair and white face.

"I'll tell you presently," he said. "I've trusted you. I'll trust you
with all.... But let me have my own time. This is so strange a thing,
my wanting to confide in you. It's selfish, perhaps. I have my own ax
to grind. I hope I won't wrong you. That's why I'm going to be perfectly
frank. I might w