was easy to see from the white, set look of her face as the monotonous
months dragged on that she was no nearer to accomplishing that task than
on the day of her arrival. Nothing that Knight could do made any
difference. When an upright cottage piano appeared one day, the girl
seemed distressed rather than pleased.

"You shouldn't spend money on me," she said in the gentle, weary way that
was becoming habitual.

"It's the 'good fund' money," Knight explained, hastily and almost
humbly. "It's growing, you know. I've struck some fine investments. And
I'm going to do well with this ranch. We don't need to economize. I
thought you'd enjoy a piano."

"Thank you. You're very kind," she answered, as if he had been a
stranger. "But I'm out of practice. I hardly feel energy to take it up
again."

His hopes of what Texas might do for her faded slowly; and even when
their fire had died under cooling ashes, his silent, unobtrusive care
never relaxed.

Only the deepest love--such love as can remake a man's whole
nature--could have been strong enough to bear the strain.

But Annesley, blinded by the anguish which never ceased to ache, did
not see that it was possible for such a nature to change. She who had
believed passionately in her hero of romance was stripped of all belief
in him now, as a young tree in blossom is stripped of its delicate bloom
by an icy wind. Not believing in him, neither did she believe in his
love.

She thought that he was sorry for her, that he was grateful for what she
had done to help him; that perhaps for the time being he intended to
"turn over a new leaf," not really for her sake, but because he had
been in danger of being found out.

Scornfully she told herself that this pretence at ranching was one of the
many adventures dotted along his career; one act in the melodrama of
which he delighted to be the leading actor. His own love of luxury and
charming surroundings was enough to account for the improvements he
hastened to make at the ranchhouse.

Anxiously she put away the thought that all he did was for her. She did
not wish to accept it. She did not want the obligation of gratitude. It
even seemed puerile that he should attempt to make up for spoiling her
life by supplying a few easy chairs and pictures and a Chinese cook.

"He likes the things himself and can't live without them," she insisted.
And it was to show him that he could not atone in such childish ways that
she lived out of do