Brownleigh was off his horse beside her, his hat off, before she had finished speaking.
"Don't, I beg of you, think of it again," he pleaded, his eyes devouring2 her face. "It is all right. I quite understand. And you understand too, I am sure."
"Yes, I understand," she said, lifting her eyes full of the love she had not dared to let him see. She was fidgetting with her rings as she spoke3 and looked back anxiously at the onrushing train. Her brother, hurrying down the platform to their car, called to her to hasten as he passed her, and she knew she would be allowed but a moment more. She caught her breath and looked at the tall missionary4 wistfully.
"You will let me leave something of my own with you, just for remembrance?" she asked eagerly.
His eyes grew tender and misty5.
"Of course," he said, his voice suddenly husky, "though I shall need nothing to remember you by. I can never forget you." The memory of that look of his eyes was meat and drink to her soul during many days that followed, but she met it now steadily6, not even flushing at her open recognition of his love.
"This is mine," she said. "My father bought it for me when I was sixteen. I have worn it ever since. He will never care." She slipped a ring from her finger and dropped it in his palm.
"Hurry up there, sister!" called young Radcliffe once more from the car window, and looking up, Brownleigh saw the evil face of Hamar peering from another window.
Hazel turned, struggling to keep back the rising tears. "I must go," she gasped7.
Brownleigh flung the reins8 of the pony9 to a young Indian who stood near and turning walked beside her, conscious the while of the frowning faces watching them from the car windows.
"And I have nothing to give you," he said to her in a low tone, deeply moved at what she had done.
"Will you let me have the little book?" she asked shyly.
His eyes lit with a kind of glory as he felt in his pocket for his Bible.
"It is the best thing I own," he said. "May it bring you the same joy and comfort it has often brought to me." And he put the little book in her hand.
The train backed crashing up and jarred into the private car with a snarling10, grating sound. Brownleigh put Hazel on the steps and helped her up. Her father was hurrying towards them and some train hands were making a great fuss shouting directions. There was just an instant for a hand-clasp, and then he stepped back to the platform, and her father swung himself on, as the train moved off. She stood on the top step of the car, her eyes upon his face, and his upon hers, his hat lifted in homage11, and renunciation upon his brow as though it were a crown.
It was the voice of her Aunt Maria that recalled her to herself, while the little station with its primitive12 setting, its straggling onlookers13 and its one great man, slipped past and was blurred14 into the landscape by the tears which she could not keep back.
"Hazel! For pity's sake! Don't stand mooning and gazing at that rude creature any longer. We'll have you falling off the train and being dramatically rescued again for the delectation of the natives. I'm sure you've made disturbance15 enough for one trip, and you'd better come in and try to make amends16 to poor Mr. Hamar for what you have made him suffer with your foolish persistence17 in going off on a wild western pony that ran away. You haven't spoken to Mr. Hamar yet. Perhaps you don't know that he risked his life for you trying to catch your horse and was thrown and kicked in the face by his own wretched little beast, and left lying unconscious for hours on the desert, until an Indian came along and picked him up and helped him back to the station." (As a matter of fact Milton Hamar had planned and enacted18 this touching19 drama with the help of a passing Indian, when he found that Hazel was gone, leaving an ugly whip mark on his cheek which must be explained to the family.) "He may bear that dreadful scar for life! He will think you an ungrateful girl if you don't go at once and make your apologies."
For answer Hazel, surreptitiously brushing away the tears, swept past her aunt and locked herself into her own little private stateroom.
She rushed eagerly to the window which was partly open, guarded with a screen, and pressed her face against the upper part of the glass. The train had described a curve across the prairie, and the station was still visible, though far away. She was sure she could see the tall figure of her lover standing20 with hat in hand watching her as she passed from his sight.
With quick impulse she caught up a long white crepe scarf that lay on her berth21, and snatching the screen from the window fluttered the scarf out to the wind. Almost instantly a flutter of white came from the figure on the platform, and her heart quickened with joy. They had sent a message from heart to heart across the wide space of the plains, and the wireless22 telegraphy of hearts was established. Great tears rushed to blot23 the last flutter of white from the receding24 landscape, and then a hill loomed25 brilliant and shifting, and in a moment more shut out the sight of station and dim group and Hazel knew that she was back in the world of commonplace things once more, with only a memory for her company, amid a background of unsympathetic relatives.
She made her toilet in a leisurely26 way, for she dreaded27 to have to talk as she knew she would, and dreaded still more to meet Hamar. But she knew she must go and tell her father of her experiences, and presently she came out to them fresh and beautiful, with eyes but the brighter for her tears, and a soft wild-rose flush on her wind-browned cheeks that made her beauty all the sweeter.
They clamoured at once, of course, for all the details of her experience, and began by rehearsing once more how hard Mr. Hamar had tried to save her from her terrible plight28, risking his life to stop her horse. Hazel said nothing to this, but one steady clear look at the disfigured face of the man who had made them believe all this was the only recognition she gave of his would-be heroism29. In that look she managed to show her utter disbelief and contempt, though her Aunt Maria and perhaps even her father and brother thought her gratitude too deep for utterance30 before them all.
The girl passed over the matter of the runaway31 with a brief word, saying that the pony had made up his mind to run, and she had lost the bridle32, which of course explained her inability to control him. She made light of her ride, however, before her aunt, and told the whole story most briefly33 until she came to the canyon34 and the howl of the coyotes. She was most warm in praise of her rescuer, though here too she used few words and avoided any description of the ride back, merely saying that the missionary had shown himself a gentleman in every particular, and had given her every care and attention that her own family could have done under the circumstances, making the way pleasant with stories of the country and the people. She said that he was a man of unusual culture and refinement35, she thought, and yet most earnestly devoted36 to his work, and then she
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