ng silence followed. During it she watched him, her very attitude
imploring, while he continued to pace.

All at once he stopped determinedly. "There's a reason," he said, "why I
can't do what you ask: Come to see Marylyn, and--and all that."

"Dad? Ah, he's got to think like me."

"No; not your father."

"Maybe"--the bitterness of Mrs. Cummings' slight impelled it--"maybe you
don't think she's good enough."

"Dallas! No! No!" He put out a hand to her.

She retreated.

"There's a reason." He let his arm fall. "And it is fair and square. I'm
proud of it, too, and you must hear it." His tone was significant,
tender.

No hint of his meaning suggested itself to her. "Then I want to know
it," she said.

"I didn't intend to tell you," he began, "at least for a while. When I
was at the shack last I made up my mind it wouldn't do any good. I said
to myself, 'You keep quiet.' But"--he plucked off his hat and sent it
whirling to the gun--"I guess you'll have to know now. Dallas, the
reason--is you."

"Me?" The question was a cry.

Lounsbury waited, standing very still before her. Then reaching out
again, he touched her hand. "You," he said quietly.

Again she retreated.

"Please don't go," he begged. "I want to tell you more. And I want you
to say you believe me. You _must_ believe me."

There was another long silence. Presently he went back and picked up his
hat and gun. "I know just where it puts you," he said. "But, just the
same, I love you."

He was certain now that he had earned her displeasure. When he spoke
again, it was as one who accepts a sad finality. "I love you, and I want
you. I hoped you might think a little of me some day. For I believe I
could make you happy. So it was disappointing to find out that you
hadn't thought of me that way; that you were figuring on seeing me take
Marylyn.

"I never had much idea of marrying. But when I saw you that first time,
when you came in through the door, you remember--why, then, I began to
think. Couldn't help it." He put on his hat and lifted the gun to his
shoulder. "I even wrote mother about you," he said.

He was unprepared for the answer she gave him, for it was an answer.
Without speaking, she buried her face in the curve of her arm, and, as
if seized with an ague, began to tremble.

"Dallas," he whispered tenderly. "Oh, my dear girl! I'm so glad! so
_glad_! You will--you do?"

But he found himself pleading into space.

CHAPTER XVIII

T