de and own that she
had always loved him; but his mind was far away and he took no
thought of her weakness. He was silent--and she must be a woman to the
end, a voiceless suppliant, a slave that waits, unbidden, a chip on
the tide that carries it to some safe haven or hurries it out to sea.

With downcast eyes she turned back into the house, going about her
work with the quiet of a lover who listens for some call, and as she
passed to and fro she felt his gaze upon her. At last she looked up
and when she met his glance she went in and stood beside his bed.

"What is it you want, Rufus?" she asked, and his face lit up suddenly
as he answered with his eloquent eyes, but he could not speak the
word.

"Who am I?" he murmured, musingly, "to ask for all the world?" But he
held close to the little hands and as he felt their yielding his
breath came hard and he gazed up at her with infinite tenderness.

"Dear Lucy," he said, "you do not know me. I am a coward--it was born
in me--I cannot help it. Not with men!" he cried, his eyes lighting
up. "Ah, no; my father was a soldier, and I can fight--but--"

He paused and his vehemence died away suddenly. "Lucy," he began
again, still clinging to her hands for courage, "you have never
laughed at me--you have always been gentle and patient--I will tell
you something. You know how I ran away from Kitty, and how when she
came down here I avoided her. I was afraid, Lucy, and yet--well, it is
all over now." He sighed and turned restlessly on his pillow. "One day
I met her up the river and she--she called me a coward. Not by the
word--but I knew. That was the day before the sheep came in through
Hell's Hip Pocket, and even Jeff doesn't know of the fights I had that
night. I went out yesterday and fought Jasper Swope with my bare hands
to wipe the shame away--but it's no use, I'm a coward yet." He groaned
and turned his face to the wall but Lucy only sighed and brushed back
his hair. For a minute he lay there, tense and still; then as her hand
soothed him he turned and his voice became suddenly soft and
caressing, as she had always liked it best.

"Don't laugh at me for it, Lucy," he said, "I love you--but I'm
afraid." He caught her hands again, gazing up wistfully into her eyes,
and when she smiled through her tears he drew her nearer.

"Lucy," he whispered, "you will understand me. I have never kissed any
one since my mother died--could--could you kiss me first?"

"Ah, yes, Rufus,"