upon her.  As he had said, this was his night, and he was living in it to the full.  Ever taciturn with her as with others, he was at this time even more silent than usual, silent in a happiness which made words seem sacrilege.  He merely looked at her, wonderingly, worshipfully, with the mute devotion of a dog for its master, as a devout Catholic gazes upon the image of the Virgin Mother.  Since they had entered the tent he had scarcely spoken more than a single sentence at a time.  Only once had he given a glimpse of himself.  Then he had apologised for the meagreness of the meal.  “To-morrow,” he had said, “we will have game, the country is full of it; but to-day—­” he had looked down as he had spoken—­“to-day I felt somehow as though I could not kill anything.  Life is too good to destroy, to-day.”

Thus he lay there now, motionless, wordless, oblivious of passing time; and now and then in her place the girl’s eyes lifted, found him gazing at her—­and each time looked away.  For some reason she could not return that look.  For some reason as each time she caught it, read its meaning, her brown face grew darker.  As truly as out there on the prairie she was afraid of the infinite solitude, she was afraid now of the worship that gaze implied.  She had awakened, had Elizabeth Landor; and in the depths of her own soul she knew she was not worthy of such love, such confidence absolute.  She expected it, she wanted it—­and still she did not want it.  She longed for oblivion such as his, oblivion of all save the passing minute; and it was not hers.  Prescience, without a reason therefor which she would admit, prevented forgetfulness.  She tried to shake the impression off; but it clung tenaciously.  Instinctively, almost under compulsion, she even went ahead to meet it, to prepare the way.

“You mustn’t look at me that way, How,” she laughed at last forcedly.  “It makes me afraid of myself—­afraid of dropping.  Supposing I should fall, from up in the sky where you fancy I am!  No one, not even you, could ever put the pieces together.”

“Fall,” smiled the man, “you fall?  You wouldn’t; but if you did, I’d be there to catch you.”

“Then you, too, would be in fragments.  I’m very, very far above earth, you know.”

“I’d want to be so, if you fell,” said the man.  “You’re all there is in the world, all there is in life, for me.  I’d want to be annihilated, too, then.”

The girl’s hands folded in her lap; as they had done that afternoon, very carefully.

“You don’t know me even yet, How,” she guided on.  “You think I’m perfect, but I’m not.  I know I’m very, very human, very—­bad at times.”

The other smiled; that was all.

“I’m liable to do anything, be anything.  I’m liable to even fancy I don’t like you and run away.”

“If you did you’d return very soon.”

“Return?” She looked at him fully.  “You think so?”

“I know so.”