believed it possible to tell any one.
When at last I had finished a fear grew upon me that I had told her too
much. Her fingers still stitched, her head was bent and I could not see
her face,--only the knot of her hair coiled with an art that struck me
suddenly. Then she spoke, and her voice was very low.

"I love Polly Ann," she said; "I should like to know her."

"I wish that you could know her," I answered, quickening.

She raised her head, and looked at me with an expression that was not a
smile. I could not say what it was, or what it meant.

"I do not think you are stupid," she said, in the same tone, "but I do
not believe you know how remarkable your life has been. I can scarcely
realize that you have seen all this, have done all this, have felt all
this. You are a lawyer, a man of affairs, and yet you could guide me
over the hidden paths of half a continent. You know the mountain ranges,
the passes, the rivers, the fords, the forest trails, the towns and the
men who made them!" She picked up her sewing and bent over it once more.
"And yet you did not think that this would interest me."

Perchance it was a subtle summons in her voice I heard that bade me open
the flood-gates of my heart,--I know not. I know only that no power on
earth could have held me silent then.

"Helene!" I said, and stopped. My heart beat so wildly that I could
hear it. "I do not know why I should dare to think of you, to look up
to you--Helene, I love you, I shall love you till I die. I love you with
all the strength that is in me, with all my soul. You know it, and if
you did not I could hide it no more. As long as I live there will never
be another woman in the world for me. I love you. You will forgive me
because of the torture I have suffered, because of the pain I shall
suffer when I think of you in the years to come."

Her sewing dropped to her lap--to the floor. She looked at me, and
the light which I saw in her eyes flooded my soul with a joy beyond my
belief. I trembled with a wonder that benumbed me. I would have got to
my feet had she not come to me swiftly, that I might not rise. She
stood above me, I lifted up my arms; she bent to me with a movement that
conferred a priceless thing.

"David," she said, "could you not tell that I loved you, that you were
he who has been in my mind for so many years, and in my heart since I
saw you?"

"I could not tell," I said. "I dared not think it. I--I thought there
was another."